"You'll be late; it's five minutes to eight." A whole week passed by, and Sally heard no more of Traill.

Every day, when she went out to lunch, or left the office after work was over, she looked up and down King Street in the hope, almost the expectation, of seeing him waiting for her to come.

Then the expectation died away; the hope grew fainter and fainter, like a shadow that the sun casts upon the sundial until, at an hour before setting, it is scarcely discernible.
Another week sped its days through.

It was as the unwinding of a reel of silk, each day a round, each round and the body of the reel grew thinner and thinner, and the coils of silk lay wasted--entangled on the floor.
Deep shadows settled under Sally's eyes.

The disease of love-sickness has its common symptoms, the whole world knows them; the hungry self-interest that wears itself out into a hypochondriacal morbidity; the perverted power of vision, the hopeless want of philosophy; not to mention the hundred ailments of the body that beset every single one who suffers from the complaint.
Janet watched Sally closely through it all until, as the time passed by, even she began to think that her calculations had been at fault.
At last, one morning, there lay on the breakfast-table in the kitchen, a little brown-paper parcel addressed to Sally.