The Lost Clue by O.F. Walton

HOW long the waiting-time seemed to Marjorie as she sat in the dingy back parlour on that wet afternoon! she felt sometimes as if six o'clock would never come. As it grew darker, the stout landlady came in and lighted the gas; there was only one burner, and it gave but a dim light. Then, later still, she came again to lay the cloth for tea. Such a poor scanty meal, the loaf and a small pat of butter-that was all. There were no flowers on the table, there was nothing to relieve the bareness and austere simplicity of it all. Marjorie's heart ached for him as she looked at it. What an utter contrast to the luxury in which she knew that he had lived before!

Mrs. Hall, the landlady, lingered when she had laid the table, and seemed inclined to talk.