“But Mamma asked if you would come upstairs.”
She followed Constance to Bertha’s bedroom. Constance was astonished at the almost deathly stillness in that great house, which, on the three or four occasions that she had entered it, she had never seen other than full of movement, life, all sorts of little interests which together made up a bustling existence. There was no draught on the top floor, where Frances had her apartments; there were no doors slamming; she saw no maids, no baboe, no children: everything was quiet, deadly quiet. And, when she entered Bertha’s room, it looked to her, in the subdued light, like a sick-room.
“I have come to see how you are.”
Bertha put out her hand, silently. Then she said:
“That is nice of you. I am very tired and I have a head-ache.”
“I shall not stay long.”
“Yes, do stay. I don’t mind you.”
Bertha and Constance were now alone. And it struck Constance that a disconsolate sadness distorted Bertha’s features and that she looked very old, now that her hair, with its grey patches, was down.
“All this rush has been too much for you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bertha, vaguely. “There’s always plenty of rush here.”
“Still, it’s just as well that you’re taking a rest.”
“Yes.”
They were silent and there was no sound save the ticking of the clock. Then Constance stooped and kissed Bertha on the forehead:
