ses--"

"There's no reason--I don't believe there's any reason at all!" Evelyn
broke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly back with a little
snap.

"Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer? I honestly
believe," she went on, lowering her voice slightly, "that Rachel's in
Heaven, but Terence. . . ."

"What's the good of it all?" she demanded.

Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly but made no reply, and pressing
Evelyn's hand she went on down the passage. Impelled by a strong desire
to hear something, although she did not know exactly what there was to
hear, she was making her way to the Flushings' room. As she opened their
door she felt that she had interrupted some argument between husband
and wife. Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, and Mr.
Flushing was standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade her of
something.

"Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury," he began with some relief in his voice.
"You have heard, of course. My wife feels that she was in some way
responsible. She urged poor Miss Vinrace to come on the expedition. I'm
sure you will agree with me that it is most unreasonable to feel that.
We don't even know--in fact I think it most unlikely--that she caught
her illness there. These diseases--Besides, she was set on going. She
would have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice."

"Don't, Wilfrid," said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor taking her eyes
off the spot on the floor upon which they rested. "What's the use of
talking? What's the use--?" She ceased.

"I was coming to ask you," said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid, for
it was useless to speak to his wife. "Is there anything you think that
one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one go and see?"

The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able to do
something for the unhappy people--to see them--to assure them--to help
them. It was dreadful to be so far away from them. But Mr. Flushing
shook his head; he did not think that now--later perhaps one might be
able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly, turned her back to them,
and walked to the dressing-room opposite. As she walked, they could see
her breast slowly rise and slowly fall. But her grief was silent. She
shut the door behind her.

When she was alone by herself she clenched her fists together, and began
beating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal.
She hated death; she was furious, outraged, ind