The bedroom had a dreadful neatness; it smelt of disinfectant, furniture polish and soap, and Sophia, from the big armchair, said mournfully, “They might have left it as it was. It feels like lodgings.” And as the very feebleness of her outcry smote her sense and waked echoes of all she left unsaid, her mouth fell shapeless, and she cried, “She’s gone!” in a tone of astonishment and horror. Henrietta, sitting on a little stool before the fire, listened to the weeping which was too violent for Sophia’s strength, and the harsh sound reminded her of Aunt Caroline’s difficult breathing. It seemed as though the noise would go on for ever: she counted each separate sob, and when they had gradually lessened and died away the relief was like the ceasing of physical pain. “Aunt Sophia,” Henrietta said, “everybody has to die.” Sophia heard. Tears glistened on her cheeks, her hair was disordered, she looked like a large flaxen doll that had been left out in the rain for a long time. “But each person only once,” she whispered. “One doesn’t get used to it, and Caroline—” She struggled to sit up. “Caroline would be ashamed of me for this.” “She might pretend to be, but she’d like it really.” “I don’t know,” Sophia murmured. “She had such character. You never believed her, did you, Henrietta, when she made out she had been—had been indiscreet?” “No, I never believed it.” “I’m glad of that. It was a fancy of hers. I encouraged her in it, I’m afraid; but it made her happy, it pleased her and it did no harm. I suppose nobody believed her, but she didn’t know. I don’t think I’ll sit here doing nothing, Henrietta. I suppose I ought to go through her papers. She never destroyed a letter. I might begin on them.” “Oh, do you think you’d better? Don’t you like just to sit here and talk to me?” “No, no, I must not give way. I’m not the only one. There’s poor Francis Sales. If he’d married Rose—I always planned that he should marry Rose—and of course, we ought not to think of such things so soon, but the thought has come to me that they may marry after all.” Henrietta tightened the clasp of the hands on her knee and said, “Why do you think that?” “It would be suitable,” Sophia said. “But she’s so old. Haven’t you noticed how old she has looked lately?” “Old? Rose old?” Sophia’s manner became almost haughty. “Rose has nothing to do with age. My only doubt is whether Francis Sales is worthy of her. Dear Caroline used to say she ought to—to marry a king.” “And she hasn’t married anybody,” Henrietta remarked bitingly. “Nobody,” Sophia said serenely. “The Malletts don’t marry,” she sighed; “but I hope you will, Henrietta.” “No,” Henrietta said sharply. “I shan’t. I don’t want to. Men are hateful.”