“I wish somebody would write to me,” she said, aloud.
It was not the mail day, but there were friends in the country who corresponded with her from time to time, and to-night she would have rejoiced over the arrival of any letter. “I almost think,” she said, looking round her little domain with a half-stifled sigh, “that it was a pity that I refused to go to that concert, but if I had gone”—with a glance at a thick book—“I shouldn’t have got through my reading. By-and-by, when I’m an old lady, perhaps I shall have time to enjoy myself!” The gratification that she derived from this reflection was considerably damped by the after-thought, “and then I shan’t care about it!”
Her meditations were interrupted at this stage by a sound of stumbling footsteps on the staircase. It was Annie, the maid, panting and out of breath; there was a lady just come, who wanted to see Miss Clemon.
“A lady!” repeated Embrance. “What is her name?”
“She didn’t say, miss; she is coming up.”
A sharp ring of a bell sent Annie hurrying down stairs again; the lady, whoever she was, would have to find her way unassisted.
Embrance went out on to the landing. “The stairs are very steep,” she said, “please take care.”
“Embrance, oh, dear Embrance! is that you at last?” said a voice from below. “I thought I should never find you in this horrible dark place; how can you bear it?”
“Hush! Come up; I am glad to see you, Joan. Come into my room.”
The new-comer ran up the last few steps, and flung her arms vehemently round Embrance, who led her into her sitting-room, and then drew back to look at her.