ight before going to say that she was there. All round the big room
were the faded and withered flower-baskets and bouquets of Emilie's
wedding, the frail flowers shrivelled and brown and decayed, while the
broad white ribbons still hung in silvery folds around them. The room
had evidently not been touched since the wedding-breakfast: the dust lay
thick on the furniture; and the chairs still stood as though the room
had just been left by a multitude of guests.... Constance waited some
time; then she heard footsteps. Marianne came in, looking pale and
untidy:

"We are so sorry, Auntie, to have kept you waiting. Mamma is very tired
and has an awful headache and is lying down in her room."

"Then I won't disturb her."

"But Mamma asked if you would come upstairs."

She followed Constance to Bertha's bedroom. Constance was astonished at
the almost deathly stillness in that great house, which, on the three or
four occasions that she had entered it, she had never seen other than
full of movement, life, all sorts of little interests which together
made up a bustling existence. There was no draught on the top floor,
where Frances had her apartments; there were no doors slamming; she saw
no maids, no _baboe_, no children: everything was quiet, deadly quiet.
And, when she entered Bertha's room, it looked to her, in the subdued
light, like a sick-room.

"I have come to see how you are."

Bertha put out her hand, silently. Then she said:

"That is nice of you. I am very tired and I have a head-ache."

"I shall not stay long."

"Yes, do stay. I don't mind you."

Bertha and Constance were now alone. And it struck Constance that a
disconsolate sadness distorted Bertha's features and that she looked
very old, now that her hair, with its grey patches, was down.

"All this rush has been too much for you."

"Oh, I don't know," said Bertha, vaguely. "There's always plenty of rush
here."

"Still, it's just as well that you're taking a rest."

"Yes."

They were silent and there was no sound save the ticking of the clock.
Then Constance stooped and kissed Bertha on the forehead:

"I wanted badly to see you this evening," she said. "Addie was out with
Henri and he told me that Henri was so depressed. And so I came round."

"Henri?" said Bertha, vaguely. "I don't think so; he seemed all right."

"But Addie said...."

"What?"

"That he was so depressed."

"Really? I didn't notice it."

"Well, perhaps Addie was mistak