Great-aunt beat her hand on the arm of her chair in a feeble, restless way. When I brought her tea she said to me in her confidential whisper— “Give it to my daughter. She’s tired. She’ll tell us when she’s not so tired.” She settled herself again to watch; but she watched Anita, not the door. And in a few minutes Anita did say, as the Baxter girl had said— “She’s very ill.” And then—“I always told you we ought to have a telephone. I can’t be running out all the evening.” “Do they come tonight?” said Great-aunt Serle. Anita answered her coldly— “They do. Why not?” Great-aunt tittered. “Why not? Why not? Listen, little Jenny!” Anita, as usual, was quite patient. “Mother, you mustn’t excite yourself. Jenny, give Mother some more tea. What good would it do Madala to upset my arrangements? Besides, Kent will have the latest news. I think you may trust him.” She gave that little laugh that was Great-aunt’s titter grown musical. Then she turned to me. “By the way, Jenny, I expect friends tonight. You needn’t change, as you’re in mourning. You’ll see to the coffee, please. We’ll have the door open and the coffee in the little room. You might do it now while I dress.” The big drawing-room was divided from the little outer room by a curtained door. It was closed in the day-time for cosiness’ sake, but when it was flung back the room was a splendid one. The small room held the books and a chair or two, and a chesterfield facing the door that opened on to the passage and the narrow twisting stairs. They were so dark that Anita kept a candle and matches in the hall; but one seldom troubled to light it. It was quicker to fumble one’s way. Anita used to long for electric light; but she would not install it. Anita had good taste. The house was old, and old-fashioned it should stay. I fastened back the door and re-arranged the furniture, and was sitting down to _Eden Walls_ again when Great-aunt beckoned me. “Go and dress, my dear!” “But Anita said——” I began. She held me by the wrist, all nods and smiles and hoarse whispers. “The pretty dress—to show a pretty throat—isn’t there a pretty dress somewhere? I know! Put it on. Put it on. What a white throat! I’ve a necklace somewhere—but then Anita would know. Mustn’t tell Anita!” She pulled me down to her with fumbling, shaky hands. “Tell me, Jenny, where’s my daughter?” “Upstairs, Auntie.” “Tell me, Jenny—any news? Any news, Jenny?” I didn’t know what to say to her. I was afraid of hurting her. She was so shaking and pitiful. “Is it about Miss Grey, Auntie?” “Carey, Jenny—Carey. Mrs. John Carey. Good name. Good man. But Anita don’t like him. Anita won’t tell me. You tell me, Jenny!”