"My private view doesn't matter, after all. Traditionally it is inadmissible, of course. But if you would like the treatment altered a little, I will speak to Louise. It is only the dress rehearsal, of course." Miss Marsham looked relieved. "Perhaps it would be better. A little more childlike, you know. But don't let her think me annoyed, Miss Hartill; I am sure she has worked so hard. Just a hint, you know. I should not like her feelings to be hurt. Poor child, the results were a sad disappointment to her, I'm afraid. You spoke to her about the change of class?" "Yes." "I hope she was not distressed?" Clare remembered the look on Louise's face. She hesitated. "She will get over it," she said. The kind old woman looked worried. "You must not let her feel that she has failed over this, Miss Hartill--on the top of the other trouble. You will be judicious?" A door slammed in the distance; there was a blurr of voices, a sound of hurrying footsteps. Clare rose impatiently; she was tired of the subject. "It will be all right, Miss Marsham. I understand Louise. What in the world is that disgraceful noise?" But the door was flung open before she could reach it. Alwynne stood in the aperture, panting a little. In her arms lay Louise, her head falling limply, like a dead bird's. Behind them, peering faces showed for a moment, white against the dusk of the passage. Then Alwynne, staggering beneath the dead weight, stumbled forward, and the door swung to with a crash. The roomful of women stared in horrified silence. "She's dead," said Alwynne. "I found her on the steps. She fell from a window. One of the children saw it. She's dead." She swayed forward to the empty rocking-chair, and sat down, the child's body clasped to her breast. She looked like a young mother. Clare, watching half stupified, saw a thin trickle of blood run out across her bare arm. It woke her. "Send for a doctor!" screamed Clare. "Send for a doctor! Will nobody send for a doctor?" CHAPTER XXIV