to Bertha’s on her day? The old woman did not know; but never had a Sunday evening passed with such difficulty; and yet what was it all about? An article, a visit. . . . An article, a visit. . . . She endeavoured, despairingly, to look upon these things as small, as meaningless, as nothing; but it was no use: the question of the visit was very important, an undoubted blunder on Constance’ part; and the article—Heavens, the article!—was, though she herself had not read it, a disgrace, raking up the scandal of years ago which soiled and defiled all her children, all, all her nearest and dearest. No, these things were not insignificant: they were great and important things in their lives. What, what could be more important than what might happen through that visit to Bertha and—Heavens!—a scurrilous article? . . .
Bertha refused to play, declared that she hadn’t the head for it. And, though she had at first deliberately avoided Constance, she now seemed constantly, almost fatally, to be moving nearer her, restlessly, unable to keep her seat, amid the excitement which once more slowly took hold of them all, after their first attempt at calmness from respect for their brother-in-law, the cabinet-minister. But Constance went on talking to Paul and, in her turn, avoided her sister’s glances; until, at last, Bertha, as though unable to keep it in any longer, sat down on a chair beside her and said:
“Constance . . .”
“Well?”
