She turned back to Thair, whose last question hung, waiting her answer.
“No, nothing—you’re good—not now—except let me go back alone!”
She ran. From the moment he had confounded her she had dropped all consideration of appearances. On the stair she passed a maid, her arms heaped with newly ironed linen and delicate flowered fabrics—frocks Julia had worn about the house. Then she must be packing. She would be in her room. Half-way down the upper hall, Florence heard the rushing approach of sweeping silk. She stopped, almost opposite her own door, and waited. Julia came down the hall, headlong even when walking. She saw Florence not until she was upon her. She started, drew herself together, made to go on, hesitated.
“Can I do anything?” she said. Her voice gave the commonplace sharp significance, as though her very self depended on the “anything” she could do.
“Yes,” Florence said, holding open her door. “Come in.”
The girl gazed, as if this were the last thing she had expected. Her eyes looked out blackly, defiance through suspicion, as the door closed after her. “See how miserable I am,” they seemed to say, “but don’t dare pity me!” Her face was startling, bewildering. It meant so much more than seemed in nature, even in a woman who had injured the man she loved. It had the furtive suffering of a creature in a trap. It seemed that at any moment her strained voice would break into a cry.
“You’re going to-morrow?” Florence asked her.
Julia stiffened. Her manner was perfunctory. “Yes, I’m going up to town. If there is anything I can do for you there—”
“Aren’t you needed here?” Florence asked her. She felt quieted by the other’s agitation.
The girl stared as if she suspected she was made sport of. “I? Oh!” She smiled sharply.
“Are you sure there is nothing you could do by _staying_?” Florence persisted.
“I see what you mean,” Julia replied, still in that whetted tone that served to defend her weakness. “My fault it happened! It’s done. How can I mend it? Oh, do you think any one regrets it more than I? I would do anything—_anything_,” she repeated with sudden vehemence, “to change it, to—but it is impossible!” Her hands, that she had pressed together, fell apart. She turned nervously toward the window, as if the sight of the wide, warm garden could help her. But Florence moved to intercept the glance.