Across these half-animated heaps of woe and dye, the glances of Rose and Henrietta met in an understanding pleasing to both. This mourning had a professional, almost a rapacious quality, and if these women had no hope of material pickings, they were getting all possible nourishment from emotional ones. Their eyes, very sharp, but veiled by seemly gloom, criticized the slim, upright figures of these young women who could wear black gracefully, sorrow with dignity, and who had, as they insisted, so much the look of sisters. The air seemed freer for their departure, but the house was very empty, and though Sophia had never made much noise the place was heavy with a final silence. “I don’t know why we’re here!” Henrietta cried passionately across the dinner-table when Susan had left the ladies to their dessert. “Why were we ever here?” Rose asked. “If one could answer that question—” They faced each other in their old places. The curved ends of the shining table were vacant, the Chippendale armchairs were pushed back against the wall, yet the ghosts of Caroline and Sophia, gaily dressed, with dangling earrings, the sparkle of jewels, the movements of their beringed fingers, seemed to be in the room. “But we shall never forget them,” Henrietta said. “They were persons. Aunt Rose, do you think you and I will go on as they did, until just one of us is left?” “We could never be like them.” “No, they were happy.” “You will be happy again, Henrietta. We shall get used to this silence.” “But I don’t think either of us is meant to be happy. No, we’re not like them. We’re tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of one another, mightn’t we?” “I am fond of you.” “I don’t see how you can be”—Henrietta looked down at the fruit on her plate—“considering what has happened,” she almost whispered. Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen. “But how fond are you?” Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose, peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, “I don’t know how you measure.” “By what you would do for a person.” “Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.” Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though startled by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were stirred. “Yes,” Henrietta said, “I hated you for a long time, but now I don’t. You’ve been unhappy, too. And you were right about—that man. I didn’t love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn’t come that day—” Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn’t love him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.” Henrietta’s face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said clearly, “Then you’re still jealous.”