If he did nothing, she would be the wife of a
man who had failed in literature. She would not be able to take a
place in society. Life would be supported without struggle;
nothing more to be hoped.
This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the
second day, she went to communicate her news to Mrs Carter. This
amiable lady had now become what she always desired to be, Amy's
intimate friend; they saw each other very frequently, and
conversed of most things with much frankness. It was between
eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paid her visit, and she
found Mrs Carter on the point of going out.
'I was coming to see you,' cried Edith. 'Why haven't you let me
know of what has happened?'
'You have heard, I suppose?'
'Albert heard from your brother.'
'I supposed he would. And I haven't felt in the mood for talking
about it, even with you.'
They went into Mrs Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such
pretty things as can be purchased nowadays by anyone who has a
few shillings to spare, and tolerable taste either of their own
or at second-hand.
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