"Milly said it couldn't."
Agatha sighed. She said to herself, "Milly--if only Milly hadn't
interfered."
"Don't you think it's cold here in the wood?" she said.
"Cold?"
"Yes. Let's go back."
As they went Milly met them at the Farm bridge. She wanted Agatha to
come and stay for supper; she pressed, she pleaded, and Agatha, who had
never yet withstood Milly's pleading, stayed.
It was from that evening that she really dated it, the thing that came
upon her. She was aware that in staying she disobeyed an instinct that
told her to go home. Otherwise she could not say that she had any sort
of premonition. Supper was laid in the long room with the yellow blinds,
where she had first found Harding Powell. The blinds were down to-night,
and the lamp on the table burnt low; the oil had given out. The light in
the room was still daylight and came level from the sunset, leaking
through the yellow blinds. It struck Agatha that it was the same light,
the same ochreish light that they had found in the room six weeks ago.
But that was nothing.
What it was she did not know. The horrible light went when the flame of
the lamp burnt clearer. Harding was talking to her cheerfully and Milly
was smiling at them both, when half through the meal Agatha got up and
declared that she must go. She was ill; she was tired; they must
forgive her, but she must go.
The Powells rose and stood by her, close to her, in their distress.
Milly brought wine and put it to her lips; but she turned her head away
and whispered, "Please let me go. Let me get away."
Harding wanted to walk back with her, but she refused with a vehemence
that deterred him.
"How very odd of her," said Milly, as they stood at the gate and watched
her go. She was walking fast, almost running, with a furtive step, as if
something pursued her.
Powell did not speak. He turned from his wife and went slowly back into
the house.