They sat by the fire as she had foreseen, Sophia pretending to be busy with her embroidery, Rose, in a straight-backed chair, reading a book. Henrietta sat on a low stool with a book open on her knee, but she did not read it. The fire talked to itself, said silly things and chuckled, or murmured sentimentally. That chatter, vaguely insane, and the turning of Rose’s pages, the drawing of Sophia’s silks through the stuff and the click of her scissors, were the only sounds until, suddenly, Sophia gave a groan and fell back in her chair. Rose, very much startled, glanced at Henrietta and jumped up. “It’s her heart,” Henrietta said with the superiority of her knowledge. “I’ll get her medicine.” She came back with it. “She was like this when Aunt Caroline died, but I promised not to tell. If she has this she will be better.” It was Henrietta who poured the liquid into the glass and applied it to Sophia’s lips. She was, she felt, the practical person, and it was she, and not Aunt Rose, who had been trusted by Aunt Sophia. “She told me where she kept the stuff,” Henrietta continued calmly. “There, that’s better.” Sophia recovered with apologies: a little faintness; it was nothing. In a few minutes she would go to bed. They helped her there. “You ought to have told me, Henrietta,” Rose said on the landing. “I couldn’t. She wished it to be our secret.” It was pleasant to feel that Aunt Rose was out of this affair. “We must have the doctor and she ought not to be alone to-night.” I’ll sleep on the sofa in her room.” “No, Henrietta, you need more sleep than I do.” “Oh, but I’m young enough to sleep anywhere—on the floor! But let Aunt Sophia choose.” Henrietta went back to the drawing-room, and the housemaid was sent for the doctor. Shortly afterwards there came a ring at the bell; no doubt it was the doctor, and Henrietta wished she could go upstairs with him, for Aunt Rose, she told herself again, was not a practical person and Henrietta was experienced in illness. She had nursed her mother and she liked looking after people. She knew how to arrange pillows; she was not afraid of sickness. However, she would have to wait until Aunt Sophia sent for her; but it was not the doctor: it was Charles Batty who appeared in the doorway. “Oh,” Henrietta said, “what have you come for?” He put down the hat and stick he had forgotten to leave in the hall. “I don’t know,” he said. “I had a kind of feeling you might like to see me. It’s the first time I’ve had it,” he added solemnly. He really had an extraordinary way of knowing things, but she said, “Well, Aunt Sophia’s ill, so I don’t think you can stay.” He looked round for her. “She’s not here. I shan’t do any harm, shall I? We can whisper.” “She wouldn’t hear us anyhow. It’s my room above this one.” “Is it?” He gazed at the ceiling with interest. “Oh, up there!” “I should have thought you knew by instinct,” she said bitingly. “No.”