Virginia watched her mother gravely as she busied herself making her comfortable. It was for her mother to give some idea of her intentions, and she hadn’t said a word. ‘Are you quite comfortable, dearest?’ Catherine asked, kissing the solemn young face before going away. ‘Quite, thank you. Sweet of you, mother,’ said Virginia, closing her eyes. For some reason she suddenly wanted to cry. Things were so contrary; it was so hard that she and Stephen couldn’t be left alone; yet her mother was so kind, and one would hate to hurt her. But one’s husband and his happiness--did not they come first? Her mother went away, shutting the door softly. Virginia lay listening for Stephen’s footsteps. Her forehead had a pucker in it again. Used to the bed.... XIV Catherine was safe at Chickover; for that much she was thankful. But, apart from safety, what a strange, different place it now seemed to her. Each night throughout that week as she undressed, she had a fresh set of reflections to occupy her mind. It was a queer week. It had an atmosphere of its own. In this developing dampness--for so at last it presented itself to her imagination--she felt as if her wings, supposing she had any, hung more and more stiffly at her side. As the solemn days trudged one by one heavily past she had a curious sensation of ebbing vitality. Life was going out of her. Mists were closing in on her. The house was so quiet that it made her feel deaf. After dark there were so few lights that it made her feel blind. Oh yes, she was safe,--safe from that mad young man; but there were other things here--strange, uncomfortable things. There was this depressing feeling of a slow, creeping, choking, wet fog gradually enveloping her. On Monday night as she undressed she didn’t think like this, she hadn’t got as far. All she did on Monday night was to go over the events of the day with mild wonder. She had said a great many prayers that day; for not only had there been family prayers before breakfast and the last thing at night, but Stephen had asked her after tea whether she wouldn’t like to go with him to evening service. A host’s suggestions are commands. When he invites, one must needs accept. Indeed, she had accepted with the propitiatory alacrity common in guests when their hosts invite, aware that he was doing his best, with the means at his disposal, to entertain her, and anxious to show herself grateful. Where other hosts take their guests to look at ruins, or similar unusual sights, Stephen took his to church. ‘Oh--delightful,’ she had exclaimed on his proposing it; and only afterwards reflected that this was perhaps not quite the right word.