These harder thoughts soon faded. As always happened, the hour in church did her good. Self-pity, except as the most transient emotion, was well nigh impossible to her. Courage was always renewing itself, and she could not long retard the heightening glow that succeeded each fit of depression.
After all, she was in no worse a fix than when her first husband threw a ruined business on her hands. While there's life there's hope.
To her surprise she found Mr. Prentice waiting for her outside the church porch.
"Good evening, Mr. Prentice;" and she looked at him anxiously. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"No, no," said Mr. Prentice jovially. "The fact is, my wife is on the sick list again; and as I'm at a loose end, I've come round to ask if you could give me a bit of supper."
The real fact was that earlier in the day he had seen Mr. Marsden driving to the railway station with a valise and dressing-case on the box of the fly. He knew that this gentleman was by now safe in London, and he had grasped an opportunity of seeing his old friend alone. He desired, and intended if possible, to cheer her up and put new heart into her.
"Come along then." She was obviously pleased to accept his company. "But I'm afraid there won't be much supper—because Richard is away to-night."
"I'm not hungry. I over-ate myself at dinner—I always over-eat on Sundays. Bread and cheese will do me grandly."
"We'll try to produce something better than that"; and Mrs. Marsden bustled up the stairs, calling loudly for Yates.