"I shall certainly come down by luncheon-time," said Lady Coryston, sharply. "Tell Arthur that I wish to have some conversation with him before he goes back to London. And as for you, Marcia, the best thing you can do is to go and rest for a time, and then to explain all you have been doing to Edward. I must say I think you will have a great deal to explain. And I shall scold Bellows and Mrs. Drew for letting you hear such a horrible thing at all--without coming to me first." "Mother!" cried Marcia, in a kind of despair. "Aren't you--aren't you sorry for those two people?--and don't you understand that I--I hoped I might have helped them?" At last she began to weep. The tears ran down her cheeks. Lady Coryston frowned. "Certainly, I'm sorry. But--the fact is, Marcia--I can't stand any extra strain this morning. We'll talk about it again when you're more composed. Now go and lie down." She closed her eyes, looking so gray and old that Marcia, seized with a new compunction, could only obey her at once. But on the threshold she was called back. "If any messenger arrives with a letter for Arthur--tell them down-stairs to let me know." "Yes, mother." As soon, however, as she had closed the door Marcia's tired mind immediately dismissed the subject of Arthur, even of her mother. The tumult of anguish returned upon her in which she had stood ever since she had come back from her faint to the bitter consciousness of a world--an awful world--where people can die of misery for lack of pity, for lack of help, and yet within a stone's-throw of those who yearned to give them both. She went back to her room, finished her dressing mechanically, wrote a short letter, blotting it with tears, and then went tottering down-stairs. In the central hall, a vast pillared space, crowded with statuary and flowers, where the men of the house were accustomed to smoke and read the newspapers after breakfast, she perceived Reginald Lester sitting alone. He sprang up at sight of her, came to her, took her hands, looked into her face, and then stooped and kissed her fingers, respectfully, ardently; with such an action as a brother might have used to a much younger sister. She showed no surprise. She simply lifted her eyes to him, like a miserable child--saying under her breath: "You know--I saw them--the night before last?" "I know. It has been a fearful shock. Is there anything I can do for you?" For he saw she had a letter in her hand. "Please tell them to send this letter. And then--come back. I'll go to the library."