It was almost awful to see her, knowing what I knew, pretending I knew nothing; and with another kind of girl, it might have been comical. I would say, ''Are you poorly, miss? Shall I fetch you something? Shall I bring you the little glass, to look at your face in?''—and she would answer, ''Poorly? I am only rather cold, and walking to keep my blood warm.'' And, ''A glass, Sue? Why should I need a glass?''
''I thought you were looking at your own face, miss, more than was usual.''
''My own face! And why should I be interested in doing that?''
''I can''t say, miss, I''m sure.''
I knew his train was due at Marlow at four o''clock, and that William Inker had been sent to meet it, as he had been sent for me. At three, Maud said she would sit at the window and work at her sewing there, where the light was good. Of course, it was nearly dark then; but I said nothing. There was a little padded seat beside the rattling panes and mouldy sand-bags, it was the coldest place in the room; but she kept there for an hour and a half, with a shawl about her, shivering, squinting at her stitches, and sneaking sly little glances at the road to the house.
I thought, if that wasn''t love, then I was a Dutchman; and if it was love, then lovers were pigeons and geese, and I was glad I was not one of them.
At last she put her fingers to her heart and gave a stifled sort of cry. She had seen the light coming, on William Inker''s trap. That made her get up and come away from the window, and stand at the fire and press her hands together. Then came the sound of the horse on the gravel. I said, ''Will that be Mr Rivers, miss?'' and she answered, ''Mr Rivers? Is the day so late as that? Well, I suppose it is. How pleased my uncle will be!''