ould it be
like that for us, when our world comes to an end? Old Maisie was sorry
for that little beetle, and would have liked to save him.

She sat on, watching the tongues of flame creep up and up on the log
that seemed to defy ignition. The little beetle's fate had taken her
mind off her retrospect; off Dave and Dolly, and the pleasant image of
Pomona. She was glad of any sign of life, and the voices that reached
her from the kitchen or the servants' hall were welcome; and perhaps ...
_perhaps_ they were not quarrelling. But appearances were against them.
Nevertheless, the lull that followed made her sorry for the silence. A
wrangle toned down by distance and intervening doors is soothingly
suggestive of company--soothingly, because it fosters the distant
hearer's satisfaction at not being concerned in it. Old Maisie hoped
they would go on again soon, because she had blown those lights out
rashly, without being sure she could relight them. She could tear a
piece off the newspaper and light it at the fire of course. But--the
idea of tearing a newspaper! This, you see, was in fifty-four, and
tearing a number of the _Times_ was like tearing a book. No spills
offered themselves. She made an excursion into her bedroom for the
matchbox and felt her way to it. But it was empty! The futility of an
empty matchbox is as the effrontery of the celebrated misplaced
milestone. Expeditions for scraps of waste-paper in the dark, with her
eyesight, might end in burning somebody's will, or a cheque for pounds.
That was her feeling, at least. Never mind!--she could wait. She had
been told always to ring the bell when she wanted anything, but she had
never presumed on the permission. A lordly act, not for a denizen of
Sapps Court! Roxalana or Dejanira might pull bells. Very likely the log
would blaze directly, and she would come on a scrap of real waste-paper.

Stop!... Was not that someone coming along the passage, from the
kitchen. Perhaps someone she could ask? She would not go back to her
chair till she heard who it was. She set the door "on the jar" timidly,
and listened. Yes--she knew the voices. It was Miss Lutwyche and one of
the housemaids. Not Lupin--the other one, Mary Anne, who seldom came
this way, and whom she hardly knew by sight. But what was it that they
were saying?

Said Miss Lutwyche:--"Well, _I_ call her a plaguy old cat.... No, I
don't care if she _does_ hear me." However, she lowered her voice to
finish her spe