It was all so difficult. She had betrayed him this morning, she had not thought nearly enough about it all. She was beginning not to care already. This morning she had frittered away, excusing herself by saying that Mabel would think of something, while everyone knew that it was always she who talked while Mabel listened. Still, it was necessary to talk. But last night had been so dreadful, when she had lain in bed turning the thing over and over in her mind, and she had prayed too. She had thought of many ways to occupy his time, but they had all gone out of her head now. Those red curtains were getting faded, but Skeam’s man had been insolent when last he came. That was what we were comin’ to, a decorator’s tout giving himself airs. Before all this she had meant to put John into a decorator’s business, he was so artistic that he would have done wonders, perhaps even made a little money. But there, it was no use thinkin’ of might-have-beens. He must marry, it was the only thing he could do. He must be a man, and not be left unfinished. They would have the marriage in the church, and a dinner for the tenants in the Great Hall. But he was so young. And she would spend the evenin’ of her days in the Dower House. She passed through the Great Hall. She buried her head violently into a pot of dead roses. In her room Ruffles was sleeping fitfully in his basket. She picked up a paper, glanced at the headlines, then put it aside. She sat in her armchair and looked vacantly at Greylock over the fireplace. Along the mantel-board were ranged a few cards to charities, to funerals, and to weddings. She picked up the paper again and looked through the Society column, and then the deaths and marriages, and then threw it onto the floor. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away in the pocket of her skirt. She rubbed her face slowly in her hands, when she stopped it was redder still. Then she sat for some time looking at nothing at all, thinking of nothing at all. The specks kept on rising in the sunlight. She got up. She rang the bell. She went to the writing-table and sat down. She opened the inkstand hoof, Choirboy’s hoof, and she looked at her pens. She dipped one into the ink, and she drew a bit of paper towards her. Then she looked out of the window on to the rose garden for some time. William came in. “William, Mrs. Crayshaw has written to say that she will want fifty cups and saucers.... No, on second thought ... It is all right, William, I will go and tell cook myself. And--oh, William, the letters, please.” “Yes, madam.” William held the door open for her. Mrs. Lane might not like it from the butler. She would go up to see him after this. But you could not be too careful with servants nowadays, and ... * * * * *