Sylvia loitered to wave her hand and watch them row away, but Marcia, as if unable to bear the sight, waited for no further farewell.
Even after the girl had followed her indoors and during the interval they washed the breakfast dishes together, Sylvia did not venture to ask any explanations. If Marcia preferred to exclude her from her confidence, she resolved not to intrude.
Instead, she began to talk of her evening with the Doanes and although well aware Marcia scarcely listened, her gossip bridged the gulf of silence and gave the elder woman opportunity to recover her poise.
By noon Marcia was, to outward appearances, entirely herself. She had not been able, to be sure, to banish her pallor or the traces of sleeplessness; but she had her emotions sufficiently under control to talk pleasantly, if not gaily so that only an understanding, lynx-eyed observer like Sylvia would have suspected she was still keyed to too high a pitch to put heart in what she mechanically said and did.
That day and the next passed in much the same strained fashion.
That the woman was grateful for her niece's forbearance was evident in a score of trivial ways. That she also sensed Sylvia's solicitude and appreciated her loyalty and impulsive outbursts of affection was also obvious.
It was not until the third morning, however, that the barriers between the two collapsed.
Marcia had gone into the living-room to write a letter—a duty she especially detested and one which it was her habit to shunt into the future whenever possible.
Today, alas, there was no escape. A business communication had come that must be answered.
She sat down before the infrequently used desk and started to take up her pen when Sylvia heard her utter a cry.