She felt ill.
So Aylmer had never got her letter?
He had been in London without telling her.

He had forgotten her.

Perhaps he was deceiving her?
And he was making love obviously to that sickening, irritating red-haired fool (so Edith thought of her), Vincy's silly, affected art-student.
When Edith went home she had a bad quarter of an hour.

She never even asked herself what right she had to mind so much; she only knew it hurt.

A messenger boy at once, of course.
'Dear Mr Ross, I saw you this morning.