“‘In the midst of life we are in death!’ Oh how true that is!” “But oh, mother, how _banal_!” cries Féodorovna, disgustedly. “And you have said it three times already!” It is the one solitary instance in their two existences in which Mrs. Darcy is “with” Miss Prince. But the insult to her “parts of speech” brings the parent up to one of her rare revolts against the tyranny of her offspring. “Well,” she retorts tartly, “I suppose we cannot always, all of us, be original. After all, there is nothing very original in death and sorrow--and--and judgment!” “Oh, but that poor text _is_ worn so threadbare; it has hardly a rag of clothes left on its back! Well, good-bye, Mrs. Darcy,” taking the initiative in departure, as she always does when visiting in her mother’s company. “Tell Lavinia that though she will not see me, I am with her incessantly in spirit. _She_ knows that _I_ know what sorrow is.” Mrs. Prince follows with her blunter adieux. “Well, good-bye. Give the poor things any message from me you can make up that you think will comfort them. And if there is any difficulty about catering--in these cases there is always a good deal of coming and going, and consequent eating and drinking--just tell Lavinia to send everybody straight up to the Chestnuts. In an establishment of the size of ours, half a dozen more or less make no sort of difference. Well, good-bye, again. I am terribly upset. I think it is a hundred times worse than last time!” But from this assertion of the superior tragedy of the present drama to that enacted on the same stage seven weeks ago, Mrs. Darcy’s whole soul dissents. In the relief of recovered solitude she goes once again to the French window, once again leans her hot head against the jamb, but this time, in the intensity of her thinking, the over-sweetness of the mignonette in the bed at her feet goes unnoticed. The shows of things pass before her in their utter falsity, shouldered away by the underlying realities. To outward seeming how incomparably sadder it appears that Rupert should be rent away from life just when--as if in brutal practical jest--he had been restored to her warm mother’s arms; just when hope was wheeling round him on her strong pinions, and love-- “With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing,” than that he should be transferred from bed to grave, for ever unconscious of the change!