r old
importance.

Her old flow of conversation--checked recently by the sense of Maggie's
strangeness--returned to her. In the morning she would stand by her
brother's study-table, duster in hand, and pour out her heart.

"You know, Paul, it's all very well, you may say what you like, but if
Mrs. Maxse thinks she's going to have the whole of that second pew
she's mistaken. It's only for a week or two that she's got the
Broadbents staying with her, and I know what she's after. Just fancy!
What she wants is to put the Broadbents in that second seat the two
Sundays they're here and then stick to it after they're gone. Just
fancy what Miss Beats and Miss Hopwood will feel about it! What I mean
is that they've had that seat for nearly eight years and now to be
turned out! But I assure you, Paul, from what Linda Maxse said to me
yesterday I believe she intends that, I do indeed. She thinks Miss
Beats and Miss Hopwood will get used to sitting somewhere else after
two Sundays. 'I'm sure they won't mind--poor old things,' she said only
yesterday. 'Poor old things.' Just fancy! Why, Mary Beats is very
little older than I. You'll have to put your foot down about it, you
will, indeed, Paul. Yes, you will. Give Linda Maxse an inch and she
takes a mile, I always said--and this is just the kind of thing ..."

So happily Grace ran on and Paul looked up from his desk at her,
digging his fingers into his white hair, smiling at her in just the old
confidential way that he used to have before Maggie came.

She revived, too, her old habit of talking to herself. This had always
been an immense relief to her--it had helped her to feel reassurance.
Lately she had felt that Maggie was overhearing her and was laughing at
her; this had checked her and made her suspicious. Now as she began to
mount the stairs she would murmur to herself: "It might be better to
tell Jenny to go to Bartletts. After all, it's quicker that way, and
she'll be able to tell the boy to bring the things back. She needn't
wait. All the same she's stupid, she'll make a muddle of it as likely
as not. And Womball's boy is livelier than Bartletts'. That's something
after all. But if she goes out at two-thirty she'll never be back by
four--unless she went by Smith's lane of course--she might do that ...
Oh, dear, these stairs are a trial ... yes, she might do that, and
then she'd only be an hour altogether. I'll suggest that ..."

Her murmur was a cheerful monotonous soun