s. But she remembered the case of
Harriet Freeze, who had been unable to resist the quiet, unexpressed
force of opinion of her fellow-workers. It would be strange if Lloyd
should find herself driven from the very house she had built.

The hour before supper-time seemed interminable; the quarter passed,
then the half, then the three-quarters. Lloyd imagined she began to
detect a faint odour of the kitchen in the air. Suddenly the remaining
minutes of the hour began to be stricken from the dial of her clock with
bewildering rapidity. From the drawing-room immediately below came the
sounds of the piano. That was Esther Thielman, no doubt, playing one of
her interminable Polish compositions. All at once the piano stopped,
and, with a quick sinking of the heart, Lloyd heard the sliding doors
separating the drawing-room from the dining-room roll back. Miss
Douglass and another one of the nurses, Miss Truslow, a young girl, a
newcomer in the house, came out of the former's room and went
downstairs, discussing the merits of burlap as preferable to wall-paper.
Lloyd even heard Miss Truslow remark:

"Yes, that's very true, but if it isn't sized it will wrinkle in damp
weather."

Rownie came to Lloyd's door and knocked, and, without waiting for a
reply, said:

"Dinneh's served, Miss Searight," and Lloyd heard her make the same
announcement at Miss Bergyn's room farther down the hall. One by one
Lloyd heard the others go downstairs. The rooms and hallways on the
second floor fell quiet. A faint, subdued murmur of talk came to her
ears in the direction of the dining-room. Lloyd waited for five, for
ten, for fifteen minutes. Then she rose, drawing in her breath,
straightening herself to her full height. She went to the door, then
paused for a moment, looking back at all the familiar objects--the
plain, rich furniture, the book-shelves, the great, comfortable couch,
the old-fashioned round mirror that hung between the windows, and her
writing-desk of blackened mahogany. It seemed to her that in some way
she was never to see these things again, as if she were saying good-bye
to them and to the life she had led in that room and in their
surroundings. She would be a different woman when she came back to that
room. Slowly she descended the stairs and halted for a moment in the
hall below. It was not too late to turn back even now. She could hear
her companions at their supper very plainly, and could distinguish
Esther Thielman's laug