Chorus was at work again; not at a London dinner-table this time, but in the easier atmosphere of a North Riding manor house, which men left in the morning to shoot grouse, and came back to in the evening to gossip with their womenkind, in the cheerful light of an oak-panelled dining-room. Chorus was wearing black, quite the prettiest thing in complimentary mourning, which all her friends assured her suited her to perfection and took ten years off her age. Susan Amphlett had received that kind of compliment too often of late. She thought people were beginning to lay a disagreeable stress upon the passage of time in relation to her personal appearance. "I doubt if I shall ever wear anything but black for the rest of my poor little life," she said tearfully. "That darling and I were like sisters. And that she should have died when I was in Scotland, hundreds of miles away from her!" "It must have been sudden?" "Heart failure. No one was with her. She had three hospital nurses to look after her, but she died alone in a dark room, while two of them were dawdling over their tea, and the third was in bed. The dog whined, and they went to look for her. She was lying in a huddled heap on the carpet, near the open door, and that poor, faithful beast was standing by her, whining piteously." "Where was Rutherford?" "At Newmarket, of course, the only place where he has been happy for a long time, settling up next year's campaign, who was to ride for him, and so on." "What had become of the devoted husband you used to tell us about?" "Does anything last in this decadent age? There never was a more romantic couple than that sweet creature and my cousin Claude three years ago. Their marriage was a poem, everything about their lives was full of poetry, their house was the most popular in London, their chef quite the best. They were all sweetness and light; the most brilliant example of what youth, and cleverness, and good looks, and unlimited money can do. But the Goodwood before last changed all that. Vera was ennuied and run down--the two things go together, don't you know--and broke her engagement to stay with the Waterburys for the race week. Claude went there without her. You all know the sequel, so why recapitulate? Nothing was ever the same after that." "Was there an inquest?" asked the host. "Thank Heaven that wasn't necessary. Her doctor had been seeing her every morning, and knew she might go off at any moment. Heart failure. She was buried in Italy, at a dull little place on the Riviera, in the grave with her first husband and his daughter. Her own wish. She was all poetry to the last, a poet's daughter."