. . . I will do as you say . . . only we'll keep it a secret between us until the time comes when it's necessary to speak. And then . . . then we'll have a quiet funeral."
She would have left him then save that she knew from his manner that there were other things he wanted to say. He had a way of letting you know his will without speaking. Somehow, in his presence you felt that it was impossible to leave until he had dismissed you. He still treated his own son, who was nearly fifty, as if he were a little boy.
Olivia waited, busying herself by rearranging the late lilacs which stood in a tall silver vase on the polished mahogany desk.
"They smell good," he said abruptly. "They're the last, aren't they?"
"The last until next spring."
"Next spring . . ." he repeated with an air of speaking to himself. "Next spring. . . ." And then abruptly, "The other thing was about Sabine. The nurse tells me she has discovered that Sabine is here." He made the family gesture toward the old north wing. "She has asked to see Sabine."
"Who told her that Sabine had returned? How could she have discovered it?"
"The nurse doesn't know. She must have heard some one speaking the name under her window. The nurse says that people in her condition have curious ways of discovering such things . . . like a sixth sense."
"Do you want me to ask Sabine? She'd come if I asked her."
"It would be unpleasant. Besides, I think it might do harm in some way."
Olivia was silent for a moment. "How? She probably wouldn't remember Sabine. When she saw her last, Sabine was a young girl."
"She's gotten the idea now that we're all against her, that we're persecuting her in some way." He coughed and blew
