some men who can reverence woman."

As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and
ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and
said:

"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."

"What train?"

"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically.

The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.

"When does the train to Rome go?"

"At eight."

"Signora Bertolini would be upset."

"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had
given notice already.

"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."

"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the
Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"

"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained
motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled
like a ghostly figure in a dream.

They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to
lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,
began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the
discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,
who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,
vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size.
She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back,
and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl
heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those
emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only
felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world
be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulse
had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her
cousin's side and took her in her arms.

Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she
was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not
love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she
said, after a long pause:

"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"

Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what
forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her
embrace a little, and she said:

"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"

"You have a great deal, and I