The letter,
of course, would have occupied her some time; she had gone out
probably to meet the writer--the maid never for a moment doubted him
to be the sharer of yesterday's escapade. She heard Julia come in, and
judged the meeting to have been a pleasant one, as it had taken time.
She had gone up-stairs now, doubtless to pack her things; that would
occupy her till almost dinner time.
It did, for she did not begin directly, but sat on her bed instead,
doing nothing for a time. But when she did begin, she went to work
methodically, folding garments with care and packing them neatly; her
heart ached for Joost and for the tangle things were in, but that did
not prevent her attending to details when she once set to work. At
last she had everything done, even her hat and coat ready to put on
when dinner should be over. Then, after a final glance round to see
that she had left nothing but the charred fragments of Rawson-Clew's
letter, she went down-stairs and got the dinner ready.
She did not take her meal with the family, but again had it in the
little room. She brought the dishes to and fro from the kitchen,
however, so she passed close to Joost once or twice and saw his grave
face and serious blue eyes, as she had seen them every day since her
first coming. And when she looked at him, and saw him, his appearance,
his small mannerisms, himself in fact, a voice inside her cried down
the aching pity, saying, "I could not do it, I could not do it!" But
when she was alone in the little room with the door shut between, the
pity grew strong again till it almost welled up in tears.
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