For a minute Rose Mallett sat down on the edge of the chair already occupied by the stick and she pressed both hands against her forehead, driving back her thoughts. Thinking was dangerous and a folly: it was a concession to circumstances, and she would concede nothing. She stood up, looked round for a mirror, remembered there was not one in the hall, and with little, meticulous touches to her hat, her hair and the white stock round her neck, she left the house. She returned to a drawing-room occupied by Caroline and Sophia, yet strangely silent. There was not a sound but what came from the birds in the garden. Caroline’s spectacles were on her nose and, though she was not reading the letter on her knee, she had forgotten to take them off, an ominous sign. Sophia’s face was flushed with agitation, her head drooped more than usual, but she lifted it with a sigh of relief at Rose’s entrance. “We’re in such trouble, dear,” she said. “Trouble! Nonsense! No trouble at all! Look here, Rose, that woman has died now.” She shook the letter threateningly. “Read this! Reginald’s wife! I suppose she was his wife. I dare say he had dozens.” “Caroline!” Sophia remonstrated. Rose took the letter and read what Mrs. Reginald Mallett, believing herself about to die, had written in her big, sprawling hand. The letter was only to be posted after her death and she made no apology for asking the Malletts to see that her daughter had the chance of earning her living suitably. “She is a good girl,” she wrote, “but when I am gone her only friend will be the landlady of this house and there are young men about the place who are not the right kind. I am telling my dear girl that I wish her to accept any offer of help she gets from you, and she will do what I ask.” “So, you see,” Caroline said as Rose looked up, “we’re not done with Reginald yet, and what I propose is that we send Susan for the girl to-morrow.” “Yes, to-morrow,” Sophia echoed. “Shall I go?” Rose asked. Sophia murmured gratitude, Caroline snorted doubt, and Rose added, “No, I think not. She wouldn’t like it. Susan would be better—but not to-morrow. You must write to the child— what’s her name? Henrietta—” “Yes, Henrietta, after our grandmother—the idea! I don’t know how Reginald dared.” “Is she a sacred character?” Rose asked dryly. “Write to her, Caroline, and say Susan will come on the day that suits her best. You can’t drag her away without warning. Let’s treat her courteously, please.” “Oh, Rose, dear, I think we are always courteous,” Sophia protested.