outside."

Everything was "loose" apparently. Something about a "hoist" had broken
in the night, and the men were still at work without breakfast, an
eighteen-hour shift. The order came for Ito to send out coffee and bread
and fruit to the famished gang. Ito was in the lowest of spirits; had just
given his mistress warning that he could not stay. The affair of the letter
had wounded his susceptibilities; he must go where he would be better
understood. All this in a soft, respectful undertone, his mistress trying
to comfort him, and incidentally hasten his response to the requisition
from outside. At eleven o'clock Mr. Thorne sent in a pencil message on a
card: "I shall not be home to lunch. Does she want to get the 12:30 train?"
Mrs. Thorne replied in the same manner, by bearer: "She did, but she is
asleep. I don't like to wake her."

The darkened house preserved its silence, a restless endurance of the
growing heat. Mrs. Thorne, in the thinnest of morning gowns, her damp hair
brushed back from her powdered temples, sat alone at luncheon. Ito had put
a melancholy perfection into his last salad. It was his valedictory.

She was about to rise when Miss Benedet came silently into the room with
her long, even step. Her dark eyes were full of sleep. Mrs. Thorne rang,
and began to fuss a little over her guest to cover the shyness each felt
at the beginning of a new day. They had parted at too high a pitch of
expression to meet again in the same emotional key.

Miss Benedet looked at the clock, lifting her eyebrows wearily. "I have
lost my train," she remarked, but added no reproaches. "Is there an evening
train to the city?"