"Yes, that is it," said Imogene, to whom Mrs. Bowen hastened with the despatch. "Why should she have telegraphed to you?" she asked coldly, but with a latent fire of resentment in her tone.
"You must ask her when she comes," returned Mrs. Bowen, with all her gentleness. "It won't be long now."
They looked as if they had neither of them slept; but the girl's vigil seemed to have made her wild and fierce, like some bird that has beat itself all night against its cage, and still from time to time feebly strikes the bars with its wings. Mrs. Bowen was simply worn to apathy.
"What shall you do about this?" she asked.
"Do about it? Oh, I will think. I will try not to trouble you."
"Imogene!"
"I shall have to tell Mr. Colville. But I don't know that I shall tell him at once. Give me the despatch, please." She possessed herself of it greedily, offensively. "I shall ask you not to speak of it."
"I will do whatever you wish."
"Thank you."
Mrs. Bowen left the room, but she turned immediately to re-open the door she had closed behind her.