“So am I,” said Miss Verinder, very quietly.
“The carriage will be at the door at ten minutes to ten, to take you to Waterloo,” he said, shouting. “You’ll have your things packed, and you’ll start—No, don’t leave the room.” She was going towards the door; but she stopped, and sat down by the piano. “Do you hear? You’ll have everything packed to-night, before you go to bed.”
“Except her dressing-case,” said Mrs. Verinder. “That must be kept open till the morning—to put in her small odds and ends—brush and comb—what she wants for her personal comfort.”
Nothing further of a contentious character was said. And presently Mr. Verinder tried to do a little acting in his turn; he essayed a representation of relief of mind, restored confidence, general good humour. He said he had interrupted Emmeline earlier in the evening when she was playing the piano. Would she play something to him now?
She obeyed, playing a selection from the new musical piece at the Savoy Theatre.
Mr. Verinder acted the soothing effect produced by tuneful melody, satisfaction that peace now reigned, and so forth; but, leaning back in the easy chair, he felt unexpectedly tired and shaky.
“Thank you, dear. That is very pretty.”
“And didn’t she play it prettily?” said Mrs. Verinder.
“Yes. Thank you, dear,” said Mr. Verinder again, indicating by his tone that in view of the task which lay before her upstairs he would not ask for an encore. That packing! He tried to express trunks and boxes by his firm but kindly manner; he did not wish to repeat the words themselves.