With an exclamation of despair and disgust, Mrs. Loamford made her way back to Dorothy’s room.
“Dorothy!”
Still no answer. She listened carefully at the keyhole. The sobbing had subsided. She could hear steady breathing. She wondered whether she ought to call her husband to open the door with his key. What use would it be with him in his present mood? She went down to the garden. It was dark, but the flash of a pocket lamp showed her that Loamford was still amusing himself with the potatoes. He enjoyed: farming at night. As she approached him he turned the lamp on her.
“Everything all right now?”
He was puffing at a cigar.
She gave up the battle.
“I think so. I’m tired.”
“Good. Go to bed. I'll spray a few plants tonight. Looks like they might need it.”
“But you must speak to Dorothy in the morning.”
“Wait till morning.”
Up in the little room which had been allotted to Dorothy, the perturbed Miss Loamford was sitting on her bed, staring at a bowl of matches on the chiffonier. The matches suggested the gas jet and the gas jet suggested something grimly fascinating. Her parents certainly would be sorry if they rapped at the door the next morning and found their daughter lying lifeless but beautiful in death. She walked about restlessly. And it certainly would serve them right! They had no consideration for her.
She leaned against the chiffonier and looked out of the window. She could see a few stars but no moon, and shadowy treetops. How dull it was! She had seen this view every night. How dull everything was! Why
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