The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

There was no bitterness in Adela's heart. There very seldom is, even in the most pessimistic of us, when we have sounded the lowest depths of human misery. Disgrace and humiliation hung over her head, but she was past all sense of dismay, and felt that she would have to follow the bailiff wherever he chose to take her. With a calmness that surprised her, she contemplated the certainty of sleeping in gaol that night. She refused to believe that Denne had turned a deaf ear to her request. Probably her messenger could not find him; or he might have been engaged in some all engrossing business that could not possibly be delayed; or he might have been summoned to the Continent at short notice, as, she understood, was often the lot of capitalists. She had not struck the psychological moment, as one so often does in such circumstances.

Meanwhile the clock hands were moving towards the fatal hour. Never had time appeared to fly so quickly before. Adela could not recollect, even in the old days when she pursued pleasure with all the keenness and zest of youth, that time had slipped away as rapidly as it was passing now. She rose and went to the hall. There was no occasion to wait. Denne was not coming, and the sooner the business was over, the better.