She cultivated geraniums and petunias in pots at her windows, just as she had done for many winters, but she would stop oftener to admire the flowers now.
The men had taken again to congregating in the hot close bar-room, or huddling together in their buffalo coats, smoking in the outer air.
Zilda looked at the wood pile, from which no one jumped now, with weary eyes.

It had grown intolerable to her that now no one ever mentioned Gilby; she longed intensely to hear his name or to speak it.

She dared not mention him gravely, soberly, because she was conscious of her secret which no one suspected.

But it was open to her to revive the mimicry.

'Voici Monsieur Geelby,' she would cry, and pass along the station platform with consequential gait.