Wrapt in such drapery as Mrs. Pettifer could find for her tall figure, Janet went down into the little parlour, and tried to take some of the breakfast her friend had prepared for her. But her effort was not a successful one; her cup of tea and bit of toast were only half finished. The leaden weight of discouragement pressed upon her more and more heavily. The wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain had come on; there was no prospect from Mrs. Pettifer’s parlour but a blank wall; and as Janet looked out at the window, the rain and the smoke-blackened bricks seemed to blend themselves in sickening identity with her desolation of spirit and the headachy weariness of her body. Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, and sat down with her sewing, hoping that Janet would perhaps be able to talk a little of what had passed, and find some relief by unbosoming herself in that way. But Janet could not speak to her; she was importuned with the longing to see Mr. Tryan, and yet hesitating to express it. Two hours passed in this way. The rain went on drizzling, and Janet sat still, leaning her aching head on her hand, and looking alternately at the fire and out of the window. She felt this could not last--this motionless, vacant misery. She must determine on something, she must take some step; and yet everything was so difficult. It was one o’clock, and Mrs. Pettifer rose from her seat, saying, ‘I must go and see about dinner.’ The movement and the sound startled Janet from her reverie. It seemed as if an opportunity were escaping her, and she said hastily, ‘Is Mr. Tryan in the town to-day, do you think?’ ‘No, I should think not, being Saturday, you know,’ said Mrs. Pettifer, her face lighting up with pleasure; ‘but he _would_ come, if he was sent for. I can send Jesson’s boy with a note to him any time. Should you like to see him?’ ‘Yes, I think I should.’ ‘Then I’ll send for him this instant.’ Chapter 17 When Dempster awoke in the morning, he was at no loss to account to himself for the fact that Janet was not by his side. His hours of drunkenness were not cut off from his other hours by any blank wall of oblivion; he remembered what Janet had done to offend him the evening before, he remembered what he had done to her at midnight, just as he would have remembered if he had been consulted about a right of road. The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra ill-humour which had attended his waking every morning this week, but he would not admit to himself that it cost him any anxiety. ‘Pooh,’ he said inwardly, ‘she would go straight to her mother’s. She’s as timid as a hare; and she’ll never let anybody know about it. She’ll be back again before night.’