She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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