"That's it! What? What can I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh, Roger, it's hard. It's very hard to see people you love unhappy, and not to be able to help them. It's the hardest thing I know. It would be such happiness to be allowed to bear things for them. But to watch.... It's harder for us than for men, you know--we're such born meddlers. We think it's our mission to put things to rights." "When we've made a mess of 'em. I'm not sure that it isn't!" "I've got to do something," she went on, without heeding him. "There you'll be at Dene, miserable--you will be miserable, Roger?" she interrupted herself, with a faint twinkle. "Don't you worry," he reassured her. "It was bad enough when she left. She's managed to make every nook and corner of the place remind one of her. I don't know how she does it. Oh, it will be rotten, all right." "Then there will be Alwynne here," she continued, "pretending she doesn't care. Working herself into a fever each time Clare is unkind to her--and pretending she doesn't care. Watching the posts for a letter from you--I know her--and pretending she doesn't care. Thoroughly miserable, and quite satisfied that I see nothing, as long as she laughs and jokes at meals. Oh, life's a comedy," cried Elsbeth. "You young folk have your troubles, and think we are too old and blind to see them; and we old folk have our troubles, and know you are too young and blind to see them. Yes, Roger--I'm having a grumble, and it's doing me good. One suffers vicariously as one gets older, but one suffers just the same. You children forget that." "Do we?" he said gently. "I won't again--we won't, later on, Elsbeth--Alwynne and I." "I want you two to be happy," she cried piteously. "I want it so. Oh, Roger, what can I do?" "Nothing," he said. She was silenced. But he was touched and a little amused to see how entirely she was unconvinced. He admired her persistence, and wondered if she had fought as vehemently for her own happiness, as she now fought for Alwynne's. Failure was instinct in her, in her faded colouring and eager, unassured manner. He thought it probable that the memory of failure was spurring her now. He roused her gently. "Elsbeth! It's past three o'clock. Will you come and see me off? I must go back to the White Horse for my bag first. Shall I call for you? I shan't be more than twenty minutes." She nodded assent and promised to be ready. Left to herself, she went to her room and dressed with mechanical care. Her mind tossed the while like an oarless boat in the sea of her restless thoughts.