"That must be partly for Dr. Inglis to decide," she said; "but if he sanctions it, I should certainly say that you had better tell him at once. I think people get used to things better and more gradually while they are still weak and perhaps suffering, though Dr. Inglis said he thought he would have no pain, whereas the same thing is a greater shock if one is well; it hits harder then. He perhaps will half-guess for himself, too; all that would torture him. To know the worst, I think, is not so bad as to fear the worst." They had reached the end of the terrace and looked out over the river a couple of hundred feet below. Just opposite them was the Bridge-pool, beyond which rose the steep moorland. Ever since it had happened, Madge had given no outward sign of her helpless, devouring anguish; she had been perfectly composed; there had been no tears, no raving cries. But now she turned quickly away. "I can't bear to look at it," she said. "There was a piece of white heather, too, where he fell." Lady Dover's sweet, rather Quakerish face did not change at all, her quiet wisdom still held sway. "We are wrong, I think," she said, "to associate material things with great grief. One cannot always wholly help it, but I think one should try to discourage it in oneself. I remember so well walking on this terrace, Madge, just after my mother died. It was a day rather like this; there were the same exquisite lights on the hills. And I remember I tried consciously to dissociate them from my own grief. I think it was wise. I would do it again, at least, which, in one's own case, comes to the same thing." She paused a moment; there was one thing she wanted to say, and she believed it might do Madge good to have it said. Deep and overwhelming as her grief was, Lady Dover knew well that anything that took her mind off herself was salutary. "But sometimes, on the other hand," she went on, "we ought to remember those people who have been most associated with it. It does not do any good to anyone to shudder at the heather. But I think, dear, it would be kind if you just wrote a line to Lord Ellington. I think you have forgotten him, and what he must feel." For the moment she doubted if she had done wisely, so bitter was Madge's reply. "Ah, I can never forgive him!" she cried. "To think that but for him----" And she broke off with quivering lip. Lady Dover did not reply at once, but the doubt did not gain ground. "I think, dear, that that is better unsaid," she replied at length. "You do not really mean it either; your best self does not mean it." Again she paused, for she did not think very quickly.