Far off a train whistled, entering the station.
"That will be the 9.50," said Mrs. Hammond.
Muriel realized then that she did not want her father to come and tell them. Her mind was chaotic with emotion. She only knew that she could not bear to face a repetition of last night's scene. Something whispered in her mind, "Father and Connie enjoy letting themselves go." If she could have brought herself to desert her mother, she would have left the room.
A motor-car hummed up the road. A motor-bicycle throbbed noisily. Then a horse came trotting, clop-clop, clop-clop.
Connie jumped up. "I can't—I can't," she gasped.
Mrs. Hammond rose, and with sudden tenderness went forward. Connie was, after all, her child. She laid gentle hands on Connie's arm that grasped the mantelpiece, but the girl pushed her roughly aside.
"Don't touch me. I don't want you!"
Clop-clop. Clop-clop. The horse-hoofs rang clear and hard on the dry road. With a swish of dead leaves and scattering of pebbles, the cart turned smartly on to the gravel of the drive. A lantern light moved beyond the slats of the venetian blind down the side window. The groom's voice spoke. Mr. Hammond answered.
They heard his footsteps pass the window. They heard him in the hall.
Connie stood quite still as her father came into the room and stopped, facing her. She did not look up.