"So did I; but not in twenty-four hours. I gave him a few days!" Mrs. Wix wailed.
Maisie, whom she had now released, looked at her with interest. "How many did she give him?"
Mrs. Wix faced her a moment; then as if with a bewildered sniff: "You had better ask her!" But she had no sooner uttered the words than she caught herself up. "Lord of mercy, how we talk!"
Maisie felt that, however they talked, she must see him, but she said nothing more for a time, a time during which she conscientiously finished dressing and Mrs. Wix also kept silent. It was as if they each had almost too much to think of, and even as if the child had the sense that her friend was watching her and seeing if she herself were watched. At last Mrs. Wix turned to the window and stood—sightlessly, as Maisie could guess—looking away. Then our young lady, before the glass, gave the supreme shake. "Well, I 'm ready. And now to see him!"
Mrs. Wix turned round, seemingly without having heard her. "It's tremendously grave." There were slow, still tears behind the straighteners.
