The same thing happened with tea and supper.

It was not till after supper that Betty, gazing out on the pale watery
sunset, found it blurred to her eyes. There was no more hope now. She
was a prisoner. If He was not a prisoner he ought to be. It was the
only thing that could excuse his silence. He might at least have gone
by the gate or waved a handkerchief. Well, all was over between them,
and Betty was alone in the world. She had not cried all day, but now
she did cry.

* * * * *

Vernon always prided himself on having a heart for any fate, but this
was one of the interviews that one would rather have avoided. All day
he had schooled himself to resignation, had almost reconciled himself
to the spoiling of what had promised to be a masterpiece. Explications
with Betty would brush the bloom off everything. Yet he must play the
part well. But what part? Oh, hang all meddlers!

"Miss Desmond," said the landlady; and he braced his nerves to meet a
tearful, an indignant or a desperate Betty.

But there was no Betty to be met; no Betty of any kind.

Instead, a short squarely-built middle-aged lady walked briskly into
the room, and turned to see the door well closed before she advanced
towards him.

He bowed with indescribable emotions.