It showed the over-wrought state of Jane's nerves that she started a little. She never starts or shows surprise. Besides, what could be more natural than that Mr. Gideon, who, disagreeable man though he is, is a close friend of hers (far too close, I always thought, considering that Oliver was on almost openly bad terms with him) should call to inquire, on seeing the dreadful news? It would, all the same, I thought, have been better taste on his part to have contented himself with leaving kind inquiries at the door. However, of course, one would never expect him to do the right-minded or well-bred thing on any occasion. 'I'll go down,' Jane said quietly. 'Will you wait there?' she added to her father and me. 'You might,' she called from the stairs, 'go and see Clare. She's in her room.' I crossed the passage to the spare bedroom, and as I did so I caught a glimpse of that man's tall, rather stooping figure in the hall, and heard Jane say, rather low, 'Arthur!' and add quickly, 'Mother and dad are upstairs. Come in here.' Then they disappeared into the dining-room, which was on the ground floor, and shut the door after them. 7 I went in to Clare. She was sitting in an armchair by the window. When she turned her face to me, I recoiled in momentary shock. Her poor, pretty little face was pinched and feverishly flushed; her brown eyes stared at me as if she was seeing ghosts. Her hands were locked together on her knees, and she was huddled and shivering, though it was a warm morning. I had known she would feel the shock terribly, but I had hardly been prepared for this. I was seriously afraid she was going to be ill. I knelt down beside her and drew her into my arms, where she lay passive, seeming hardly to realise me. 'My poor little girl,' I murmured. 'Cry, darling. Cry, and you will feel better.' Clare was always more obedient than Jane. She did cry. She broke suddenly into the most terrible passion of tears. I tried to hold her, but she pulled away from me and laid her head upon her arms and sobbed. I stayed beside her and comforted her as best I could, and finally went to Jane's medicine cupboard and mixed her a dose of sal volatile. When she was a little quieter, I said, 'Tell me nothing more than you feel inclined to, darling. But if it would make you happier to talk to me about it, do.' 'I c-can't talk about it,' she sobbed. 'My poor pet!... Did it happen after you got here, or before?' I felt her stiffen and grow tense, as at a dreadful memory. 'After.... But I was in my room; I wasn't there.' 'You heard the fall, I suppose....' She shuddered, and nodded. 'And you came out....' I helped her gently, 'as Jane did, and found him....' She burst out crying afresh. I almost wished I had not suggested this outlet for her horror and grief. 'Don't, mother,' she sobbed. 'I can't talk about it--I can't.'