Marise drew a long breath.  What superb self-control!

“Were the biscuits good?” asked Nelly, turning to Agnes.  “I was afraid afterward maybe they weren’t baked enough.”

Marise was swept to her feet.  If Nelly could master her nerves like that, she could do better herself.  She took the flowers, carried them to the kitchen, and set them in a panful of water.  She had not yet looked at ’Gene.

She went to find an umbrella to shield her hatless head from the sun, and on her way out only, cast a swift glance at ’Gene.  That was enough.  All the blazing, dusty way to the mill, she saw hanging terribly before her that haggard ashy face.

At the mill, she paused in the doorway of the lower office, looking in on the three desk-workers, tapping on their machines, leaning sideways to consult note-books.  The young war-cripple, Neale’s special protege, seeing her, got to his feet to ask her what he could do for her.

Marise considered him for a moment before she answered. Was there anything he could do for her?  Why had she come?  All she could remember for the moment was that singular contraction of her throat, which had come back now.

Then she remembered, “Is Mr. Crittenden here?”

“No, he was called away for the day, urgent business in New Hampshire.”

Marise looked about her helplessly.  “May I sit down for a moment?”

The young stenographer ran, limping and eager, to offer her a chair, and then, shyly, swung his swivel chair towards her, not wishing to go back to his work, uncertain what to say to his employer’s wife.

“When will Mr. Crittenden be back?” asked Marise, although she knew the answer.

“No later than tonight, he said,” answered the stenographer.  “He spoke particularly about coming back because of Miss Hetty Allen’s funeral.”

“Yes, of course,” said Marise.

There was nothing more to be said, she knew that, nothing more to be done, until Neale came back.  But it seemed physically impossible for her to live until then, with the clutch in her throat.

She ought to get up now, at once, and go back to Cousin Hetty’s.  The Powers were waiting for her return.  But her consternation at finding Neale really gone was a blow from which she needed a breathing time to recover.  She couldn’t have it so.  She could never endure a whole day with this possibility like a threatening powder-mine under her feet, ready to go off and bring her inner world to ruin and despair.  She put her hand out to take her umbrella and struggled up.

“Any message to leave for Mr. Crittenden?” asked the stenographer, seeing her ready to go.

She shook her head.  Her eye fell on the waste-paper basket beside the desk.  On one of the empty envelopes, torn in two, the words, “Return to C.K.  Lowder,” stood out clearly.  She turned away and stood motionless, one hand at her temple.  She was thinking to herself, “This is simply incredible.  There is some monstrous mistake.  If I could only think of a way to find it out before it kills me.”