But Rhoda, having adjusted everything that she was going to take with her, still had an occupation which kept her up for several hours.  From a locked drawer she brought forth packets of letters, the storage of many years, and out of these selected carefully perhaps a tithe, which she bound together and deposited in a box; the remainder she burnt in the empty fireplace.  Moreover, she collected from about the room a number of little objects, ornaments and things of use, which also found a place in the same big box.  All her personal property which had any value for her, except books, was finally under lock and key, and in portable repositories.  But still she kept moving, as if in search of trifles that might have escaped her notice; silently, in her soft slippers, she strayed hither and thither, till the short summer night had all but given place to dawn; and when at length weariness compelled her to go to bed, she was not able to sleep.

Nor did Mary Barfoot enjoy much sleep that night.  She lay thinking, and forecasting strange possibilities.

On Monday evening, returned from Great Portland Street, the first thing she did was to visit Rhoda’s chamber.  The ashes of burnt paper had been cleared away, but a glance informed her of the needless and unprecedented care with which Miss Nunn had collected and packed most of the things that belonged to her.  Again Mary had a troubled night.

CHAPTER XXII

HONOUR IN DIFFICULTIES

At Mrs. Cosgrove’s, this Sunday afternoon, Monica had eyes and thoughts for one person only.  Her coming at all was practically an appointment to meet Bevis, whom she had seen twice since her visit to the flat.  A day or two after that occasion, she received a call from the Bevis girls, who told her of their brother’s approaching departure for Bordeaux, and thereupon she invited the trio to dine with her.  A fortnight subsequently to the dinner she had a chance encounter with Bevis in Oxford Street; constraint of business did not allow him to walk beside her for more than a minute or two, but they spoke of Mrs. Cosgrove’s on the following Sunday, and there, accordingly, found each other.

Tremor of self-consciousness kept Monica in dread of being watched and suspected.  Few people were present to-day, and after exchanging formal words with Bevis, she moved away to talk with the hostess.  Not till half an hour had passed did she venture to obey the glances which her all but avowed lover cast towards her in conversation.  He was so much at ease, so like what she had always known him, that Monica asked herself whether she had not mistaken the meaning of his homage.  One moment she hoped it might be so; the next, she longed for some sign of passionate devotion, and thought with anguish of the day, now so near, when he would be gone for ever.  This, she ardently believed, was the man who should have been her husband.  Him she could love with heart and soul, could make his will her absolute law, could live on his smiles, could devote herself to his interests.  The independence she had been struggling to assert ever since her marriage meant only freedom to love.  If she had understood herself as she now did, her life would never have been thus cast into bondage.