She went
straight up to her room at the top of the house, washed her face and
hands, brushed her hair and put on her white frock.
As she came downstairs the clock struck half-past seven. In the hall she
met Gladys.
"Please, miss," said Gladys, "is dinner to be kept back?"
"Why," said Joan, "isn't mother in?"
"No, miss, she went out about six o'clock and she hasn't come in."
"Isn't father in?"
"No, miss."
"Did she say that she'd be late?"
"No, miss."
"Oh, well--we must wait until mother comes in."
"Yes, miss."
She saw then a letter on the hall-table. She picked it up. It was
addressed to her father, a note left by somebody. She thought nothing of
that--notes were so often left; the hand-writing was exactly like her
mother's, but of course it could not be hers. She went into the drawing-
room.
Here the silence was oppressive. She walked up and down, looking out of
the long windows at the violet dusk. Gladys came in to draw the blinds.
"Didn't mother say _anything_ about when she'd be in?"
"No, miss."
"She left no message for me?"
"No, miss.
Pages:
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609