Mrs. Batty was cured of giving parties. It was after her ball that Miss Caroline died, and it was after her garden-party that Miss Sophia finally collapsed. The heat, the emotion of her memories and the effort of disguising it had been too much for her. She died the following day and Mrs. Batty felt that the largest and most expensive wreath procurable could not approach the expression of her grief. It was no good talking to Mr. Batty about it; he would only say he had been against the ball and garden-party from the first, but Mrs. Batty found Charles unexpectedly soothing. He was certainly much improved of late, and when she heard that he was to go to Nelson Lodge on business connected with the estate, she burdened him with a number of incoherent messages for Rose. Perhaps he delivered them; he certainly stayed in the drawing-room for some time, and Henrietta, sitting sorrowfully in her bedroom, could hear his voice “rolling on monotonously. Then there was a laugh and Henrietta was indignant. Nobody ought to laugh with Aunt Sophia lying dead, and she did not know how to stay in her room while those two, Aunt Rose and her Charles, talked and laughed together. She thought of pretending not to know he was there and of entering the drawing-room in a careless manner, but she could not allow Aunt Rose to witness Charles’s indifference. All she could do was to steal on to the landing and lean over the banisters to watch him depart. She had the painful consolation of seeing the top of his head and of hearing him say, “The day after to-morrow?” Rose answered, “Yes, it’s most important.” Henrietta waited until the front door had closed behind him and then, seeing Rose at the foot of the stairs, she said, “What’s important, Aunt Rose?” “Oh, are you there, Henrietta? What a pity you didn’t come down. That was Charles Batty.” “I know. What’s important?” “There is a lot of complicated business to get through.” “You might let me help.” “I wish you would. When Charles comes again—his father isn’t very well—you had better be present.” “No, not with Charles,” Henrietta said firmly. “Does he understand wills and things?” “Perfectly, I think. He’s very clever and quite interesting.” “Oh!” Henrietta said. “I’m glad he’s coming again. And now, Henrietta,” she sighed, “we must get ready for the cousins.” The female relatives returned in dingy cabs. They had not yet laid aside their black and beads for Caroline, and, as though they thought Sophia had been unfairly cheated of new mourning, they had adorned themselves with a fresh black ribbon here and there, or a larger brooch of jet, and these additions gave to the older garments a rusty look, a sort of blush.