— 36 —Mrs. Sacret woke early and made her few preparations for leaving her country, forever, as she half supposed, half hoped. She had only her small valise to pack, her frugal breakfast to eat—still the remnants of the painter’s food in the dirty kitchen were all that she had—her heavy mourning to adjust. And then to wait. To wait—that was her portion, at first confidently, then hopefully, then in apprehension, then with a nervous restlessness touching despair. When the hour Mark Bellis had named as that of the departure of the boat train, ten o’clock, marked on the small traveling clock that had been one of her extortions from Susan, had passed, she could no longer endure her agony of suspense. She did not know where to find the painter, she had not concerned herself to ask where he stay
