"There was an inquest, you see. I had to go. I was so frightened all the time, of what I might slip into saying. But they all agreed that it was an accident. She was fond of curling up in the window-seats with her books. Oh, she was a queer little thing! When you came on her suddenly, she used to look up like a startled baby colt. She always looked as if she wanted some one to run to. Well, there was no guard, you see, only an inch of ledge--she had not been well--she must have felt faint--and fallen. They all said it was that. I was so thankful--for Clare's sake. She could not reproach herself--after such a verdict. It was 'Accidental Death.' Only--I--of course--I knew. Some of them guessed--Clare--and I believe Elsbeth, though we never discussed it--and I knew. But nobody said anything--nobody has, ever since, except once Clare told me--what she feared. I never managed to persuade her that it was an accident, but at least she doesn't know for certain, and at least she knows she couldn't help it. And now we never speak of it. But _I_ know----" "What do you know?" he said. "You found out something?" "She did--she did kill herself," said Alwynne. "Oh, Roger, she did. I've known it all along--I should have guessed anyway, I think, because I knew how unhappy she was. I knew how awfully she cared about Clare. Clare was very good to her sometimes. Clare was fond of her, you know. Clare takes violent fancies like that, to clever people. And Louise was brilliant, of course. Clare was charmed with her. Only Louise--this is how I've thought it out; oh, I've had time to think it out--she just got drunk on it, the happiness, I mean, of being cared for. She hadn't much of a home. She was rather an ugly duckling to her people, I think. Then Clare made a fuss of her, and you see, she was so little, she couldn't see that--it didn't mean much to Clare. And I don't think grown-up people understand how girls are--they have to worship some one, at that age. Clare doesn't quite understand, I think. She is too sensible herself to realise how girls can be silly. She is awfully good to them, but, of course, she never dreams how miserable they get when she gets bored with them. She can't help it." Roger's face was expressive--but Alwynne was staring at the uneasy butterfly. "It doesn't matter, as a rule. Only Louise had no one else--and it just broke her heart. If she had been grown-up it would have been like being in love." Roger made an inarticulate remark. "Don't you see?" said Alwynne innocently. "I see." He was carefully expressionless.