The girl stepped out,
smiling, happy, pretty, undimmed by the habit of trade. The man got in
and sat down, the dog beside him.
"I would stand," said Margot to Fanny, "it's so wet."
She made no allusion to the broken appointment for the night before.
Fanny, noticing the dripping boards of the boat, stood up, her hand upon
Margot's shoulder to steady herself. The thin, illusory ice shivered and
broke and sank as the oar dipped in sideways.
Cocks were crowing on the other side--the sun drew faint colours from
the ice, the river clattered at the side of the boat, wind twisted and
shook her skirt, and stirred her hair. All was forgotten in the glory of
the passage of the river.
Margot, smiling up under her damp, brown hair, took her five sous,
pressed her town boots against the wooden bar, and shot the boat up
against the bank.
Fanny went up the bank, over the railway lines, and out into the road.
Two hundred yards of road lay before her, leading straight up to the
house. On the left was a high wall, on the right the common covered with
snow--should some one come out of the house there was no chance of
hiding. She glanced down at her tell-tale silk stockings; yet she could
not hurry on those stiff and painful feet. She was near the door in
the wall.
She passed in--the dog did not bark; came to the foot of the steps
--nobody looked out of the window; walked into the hall among their
hanging coats and macintoshes, touched them, moved them with her
shoulder; heard voices behind the door of the breakfast room, was
on the stairs, up out of sight past the first bend, up, up, into
Stewart's room.
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