Marigold Ramsay walked down Mincing Lane to Fenchurch Street in gloom and despair. She returned to the bank and sat at her books, unable to work, unable to do anything, save to wonder why Gerald had so suddenly left her. Yet he had bidden her not to worry over him and had promised to return.
That evening she went over to Hammersmith, and her aunt, noticing how pale and worried she looked, inquired the reason, asking:
"Have you heard yet from Mr. Durrant?"
"No, auntie. Unfortunately, I haven't, but I'm expecting to hear every day."
"Funny he went away like that, wasn't it?" the deaf old woman remarked, though inwardly she suspected that there had been some quarrel between them, and that he had left her in consequence.
"Yes," replied the girl faintly. Then she asked after Mr. Boyne.
"Oh! he's been away four days now. He said he was going into Wales on some insurance business, and would be away a week or perhaps ten days."
"Unusual for him to go away, isn't it?" Marigold remarked.
"Yes. He's never been away for more than a week together in all the time I've been with him."
The girl left Hammersmith early, and, returning to Wimbledon Park, sat at her window and wept for a long time before retiring to rest. To her the world was empty and hopeless without Gerald.