She drew some papers towards her and began to look over them listlessly, but it was clear that there was very little interest in them; then she opened a drawer and took out some letters, which she arranged in succession and tried to fix her attention to, but neither did these succeed. She rose up, pushing them impatiently away, and began to pace up and down the room, pausing mechanically now and then to look at the note on the mantelpiece and to look at her watch, both of which things she did twice over in five minutes. At five! It was not four yet--what need to linger here when there was still an hour--still a whole hour? Mrs. Blencarrow was interrupted by a knock at her door; she started as if it had been a cannon fired at her ear, and instinctively cast a glance at the glass over the mantelpiece to smooth the agitation from her face before she replied. The servant had come to announce a visitor--Mrs. Bircham--awaiting his mistress in the drawing-room. ‘Ah! she has come to tell me about Kitty,’ Mrs. Blencarrow said to herself. She went upstairs wearily enough, thinking that she had no need to be told what had become of Kitty, that she knew well enough what must have happened, but sorry, too, for the mother, and ready to say all that she could to console her--to put forth the best pleas she could for the foolish young pair. She was so full of trouble and perplexity herself, which had to be kept in rigorous concealment, that anything of which people could speak freely, upon which they could take others into their confidence, seemed light and easy to her. She went upstairs without a suspicion or alarm--weary, but calm. Mrs. Bircham did not meet her with any appeal for sympathy either in look or words; there was no anxiety in her face. Her eyes were full of satisfaction and malice, and ill-concealed but pleasurable excitement. ‘I can see,’ said Mrs. Blencarrow, ‘that you have news of Kitty,’ as she shook hands with her guest. ‘Oh, Kitty is right enough,’ said the other hastily; and then she cast a glance round the room. ‘Are we quite alone?’ she asked; ‘there are so many corners in this room, one never knows who may be listening. Mrs. Blencarrow, I do not come to speak of Kitty, but about yourself.’ ‘About myself?’ ‘Oh,’ said Mrs. Bircham, with a gasp, ‘you speak in that innocent tone as if it was quite surprising that anyone could have anything to say of you.’ Mrs. Blencarrow changed her position so as to get her back to the light; one of those overwhelming flushes which were habitual to her had come scorching over her face. ‘No more surprising to me than--to any of us,’ she said, with an attempt at a smile. ‘What is it that I have done?’ ‘Oh, Mrs. Blencarrow--though why I should go on calling you Mrs. Blencarrow when that’s not your name----’ ‘Not my name!’ There was a shrill sort of quaver in her voice, a keen note as of astonishment and dismay.