passing into the dining-room. As if by instinct she glanced on the mantel-piece to see if there was a letter. There was a newspaper cutting. She went forward and took it. It was from one of the London papers.
“Inquest was held to-day upon the body of ——.”
Helena read it, read it again, folded it up and put it in her purse. Her mother stood watching her, consumed with distress and anxiety.
“How did you get to know?” she asked.
“I went to Wimbledon and bought a paper,” replied the daughter, in her muted, toneless voice.
“Did you go to the house?” asked the mother sharply.
“No,” replied Helena.
“I was wondering whether to send you that paper,” said her mother hesitatingly.
Helena did not answer her. She wandered about the house mechanically, looking for something. Her mother followed her, trying very gently to help her.
For some time Helena sat at table in the dining-room staring before her. Her parents moved restlessly in silence, trying not to irritate her by watching her, praying for something to change the fixity of her look. They acknowledged themselves helpless; like children, they felt powerless and forlorn, and were very quiet.
“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” asked the father at last. He was an unobtrusive, obscure man, whose sympathy was very delicate, whose ordinary attitude was one of gentle irony.
“Won’t you go to rest, Nellie?” he repeated.
