"What shall I do? What shall I do?" moaned Muriel.
The evening stretched before her in her imagination, a time of interminable misery. While Clare and her mother had been with her, she had been able to face Godfrey in Marshington; but to sit opposite him, alone and quite defenceless, while every word that he said, every line of his face lacerated her quivering nerves, how could she bear it?
She sat very quietly, only from time to time shivering a little, her thoughts beating back and back against the same stark problem. "How shall I face him?"
Then she rose, and as though spellbound began to move about the kitchen. She lit the gas stove, set the pan of soup on to boil, and began to fry the fish, not knowing what she did. On the table a newspaper had been spread to shield the scrubbed, white wood from grease. Mechanically she read: "At the reception given by Lady Marion Motley, several people of note were to be discovered among the crowd of guests thronging the historic stairway." What did she care for guests or stairway?
"L—look here, are you sure that I can't help?" said his voice from the doorway. "I'm an awful genius at cooking really."
She shook her head, not trusting herself for a moment to speak. Then she answered:
"I shan't be a moment. Go in and sit down. Don't be impatient."
She carried in the little bowls of soup.
"There's only cider, and lemonade; would you like lemonade?"
"Cider, please. You know, this is enormously good of you."