At first such echoes as reached me of these prognostications made me merely angry. But I could not quite cast them aside. I began to wonder miserably if there were anything in this view. After all we, too--even Eric--had held it ourselves, only such a little while before! I wrote to Aunt Josephine to say that if my mother were not better by Monday morning, I should bring Bettina as arranged; but I would stay only one night and go home the next day. The question rose on Friday as to whether Madame Aurore should return to London on Saturday night, or some time on Sunday. "Saturday night," said my mother with decision. Bettina ventured to urge the Sunday alternative. "The poor little thing is so tired after sewing all day----" To which my mother responded by ordering the cart for Saturday evening. "I cannot sleep with that woman in the house." . . . . . Bettina ran in to say Madame Aurore was ready to say good-bye. To our embarrassment, our mother would not permit Madame Aurore to enter the room, even for the purpose of taking leave. We went out and did what we could to soften the refusal. "She has not been sleeping...." "She is trying to rest...." "She is so much obliged to you...." Ah, Madame Aurore understood. Our poor, poor mother was undoubtedly failing. We were adjured to take every care. Certainly we should not both leave the poor lady. We told Madame Aurore that we should never forget her. "I shall take good care of the address," Bettina said. No, Madame Aurore would send us a new address. She was looking for larger rooms. She believed she was going to be stronger now. She meant to take on two or three hands. In that case, she would not be able to go out any more to people's houses. She would let us know.... She filled the hall with her patchouli and shrill vivacity, and presently was gone. When we went back into my mother's room, we found her telling the housemaid to hang our gowns in a draught "to purify them." Betty was moved to some final remonstrance. My mother cut her short: "That was a horrible woman!" "Well, well," I said, "she's gone." "Yes. That is the best that can be said of Madame Aurore. We are done with her for ever." CHAPTER XXV GOING TO LONDON Mercifully, no soul can stand at the pitch of tension long. Those too frail snap. The strong relax. As I have learned since, few who have to do with lingering illness but come to know the gradual, inevitable dulling of apprehension in the watchers. Eric says the power of human adaptability sees to it that the abnormal state of the sufferer shall come by mere continuance to wear an air of the normal. And so the watcher, with no violence to loyalty, or conscience, is relieved of the sharper sympathy.