"A funeral!" said March, with a twisted smile. "Why, that breaks my dream."
Suddenly she had thought of Banford in the wood-box for a coffin.
"What, have you been dreaming of a wedding?" said Banford sarcastically.
"Must have been," said March.
"Whose wedding?" asked the boy.
"I can't remember," said March.
She was shy and rather awkward that evening, in spite of the fact that, wearing a dress, her bearing was much more subdued than in her uniform. She felt unpeeled and rather exposed. She felt almost improper.
They talked desultorily about Henry's departure next morning, and made the trivial arrangement. But of the matter on their minds, none of them spoke. They were rather quiet and friendly this evening; Banford had practically nothing to say. But inside herself she seemed still, perhaps kindly.
At nine o'clock March brought in the tray with the everlasting tea and a little cold meat which Banford had managed to procure. It was the last supper, so Banford did not want to be disagreeable. She felt a bit sorry for the boy, and felt she must be as nice as she could.
He wanted her to go to bed. She was usually the first. But she sat on in her chair under the lamp, glancing at her book now and then, and staring into the fire. A deep silence had come into the room. It was broken by March asking, in a rather small tone:
"What time is it, Jill?"
"Five past ten," said Banford, looking at her wrist.
And then not a sound. The boy had looked up from the book he was holding between his knees. His rather wide, cat-shaped face had its obstinate look, his eyes were watchful.
"What about bed?" said March at last.
"I'm ready when you are," said Banford.
"Oh, very well,” said March. "I'll fill your bottle."
She was as good as her word. When the hot-water bottle was ready, she lit a candle and went upstairs with it. Banford remained in her chair, listening acutely. March came downstairs again.
"There you are then," she said. "Are you going up?"
