“Nancy would like that embroidered newspaper rack. She and Duncan are so very literary. I’m sure Nancy would have distinguished herself in literature, if it had been necessary. She would have made her mark--ladies take up so many things nowadays, and are received by the best people just the same. When Nancy stayed with the Cluttons she moved in a very literary set, and was much admired.” “Have you heard from Barbara lately?” asked Pamela. She was sitting by the fire, with her back to the view of gravel drive and brand-new park land of Turle House. The big, dazzling white mantelpiece was a little above her head, loaded with family photos--a long, ogling, simpering line of family features. “No. But I saw her name in the papers; I am always seeing it. Her husband is really a very distinguished man in his way. I can’t think why she buried herself at the Buttery, and talked so much at random, making enemies of so many people. How could anyone be expected to understand her? Nancy says that in London, when staying with the Cluttons, she met a great many women of that type--ill-balanced women, my dear, with a trick of extravagant talk and an unchristian, uncomfortable habit of poking fun at everything.” Pamela shifted her chair a little back from the hot fire. A quick, poignant shadow just flecked her face. A vivid picture of London, hot, restless, virile, flamed before her eyes and shook her calm for a moment. Then the peaceful slowness dropped down on her again. She looked, with a gasp of relief, at her surroundings--the big, ugly room--old-fashioned enough in its appointments and furniture to mark a distinct period. She looked at Mrs. Turle--who might or might not be her Aunt Sophy--looked at her motherly figure and hard, high-featured face. She remembered that Barbara had once said, with a laugh, that there was a strong streak of “old cat” in Aunt Sophy’s face. Nothing changed: nothing ever would change. Everything in that room was the same as it had always been in her knowledge of it. It was restful and slow: it fed and stilled one’s nerves. She no longer wanted London, no more wanted Love. But the mention of London, which had held Love, just stirred her--made her remember that she had never heard anything of Edred. She wondered if he and Sutton were still at Marquise Mansions; if they, with Milligan and a few more, were still carrying on risky financial schemes. The newspapers never mentioned them, the advertisements of their companies no longer necessitated an extra sheet. “How is Gainah?” Mrs. Turle brought out a cushion of crazy patchwork. “I’ll buy this for her, poor soul! What an invaluable woman she was! What a manager! Folly Corner would have gone all to pieces after Lilith died but for Gainah. It is a dreadful end for an active woman. I suppose, dear, you notice no change?” “None. She just sits upstairs--she won’t leave that room; my old room, you know----” “I know. You certainly had a most providential escape.”