Beatrix sat alone, till the twilight gathered round her, thinking of Cyril. To-day, for the first time, she thought of her own position, which was assuredly a horrible one. But she contemplated it without a shadow of fear. Bella’s speech yesterday, Mrs. Dulcimer’s hints to-day, had shown her that--in their minds at least--it seemed possible that people might suspect her of being her father’s murderer. There were people who would think that she, to whom crime seemed as far off as the stars, had blossomed all at once into the most deliberate and vilest of criminals. Could this really be so? Were there people capable of believing such a thing? Why was not Cyril near her in this hour of doubt and trouble? Mrs Dulcimer came with her good-natured attempts at consolation; but he, her natural consoler, held himself aloof, now, when there was no one to bar the door against him. Was it delicacy that kept him away? Yes, possibly. He might consider it an outrage against that silent master of the house to cross his threshold unbidden. ‘By and by, after the funeral, he will come,’ she thought. He had entered the house yesterday as one of the public. She had seen him in the hall, but he had either not seen her, or had not chosen to recognise her. These things were bitter to her, but she fancied there must be some wise meaning in his conduct which she could not fathom. ‘But he might at least have written to me,’ she thought, piteously. Bella came home from the Park by and by, full of the history of her day, trying to change the current of Beatrix’s thoughts by talking briskly of all that had happened in the Piper _ménage_. Mr. Piper had been wonderfully kind, and had insisted upon the brougham being brought out to take her back to the Water House. ‘I have no doubt the coachman hates me for bringing him out this damp evening,’ said Bella, ‘but Mr. Piper would not let me come any other way. “What’s the use of having ’osses eating their heads off, and a parcel of idle fellers standing about chewing straw?” he said. “It’ll do ’em good to ’ave a turn.”’ ‘How is poor Mrs. Piper?’ Beatrix asked, languidly. ‘Not any better. She had to dine in her own room. It was dreadful to see all those children stuffing turkey and pudding and mince pies, and making themselves spectacles of gluttony at dessert, without a thought of their poor mother, whose last Christmas Day was passing by--for I really don’t think Mrs. Piper can live to see another Christmas.’ ‘Then you dined alone with Mr. Piper and the children?’ inquired Beatrix, in the same listless tone. ‘Not quite alone. Miss Coyle was there.’