"I can't discuss it here," she said, in a voice even lower than usual, in rebukeful contrast to Lesbia's screeching tones. "I should be only too thankful if I could get my place satisfactorily filled here, but at present it's perfectly impossible for me to leave even for an hour or two. I very often don't get time even for lunch nowadays." "Simply because you enjoy making a martyr of yourself!" said Mrs. Willoughby spitefully. Char, dropping her eyelids in a manner that gave her a look of incredible insolence, moved away without replying. For the next week she worked harder than ever, multiplying letters and incessant interviews, and depriving herself daily of an extra hour's sleep in the morning by starting for the Depôt earlier than usual, so as to cope with the press of business. It was her justification to herself for Mrs. Willoughby's crude accusations and the unspoken reproach in Sir Piers's feeble bewilderment at her activities. Miss Plumtree fell ill with influenza, and Char took over her work, and arranged with infinite trouble to herself that Miss Plumtree should go to a small convalescent home in the country, because the doctor said she needed change of air. She was to incur no expense, Char told her, very kindly, and even remembered to order a cab for her at the country station. Miss Plumtree, owning that she could never have afforded a journey to her home in Devonshire, cried tears of mingled weakness and gratitude, and told the Hostel all that Miss Vivian had done. Everybody said it was exactly like Miss Vivian, and that she really was too wonderful. Then the demon of influenza began its yearly depredations. One member of the staff after another went down with it, was obliged to plead illness and go to bed at the Hostel, and inevitably pass on the complaint to her room-mate. "I'm afraid Mrs. Potter won't be coming today," Miss Delmege announced deprecatingly to her chief, who struck the table with her hand and exclaimed despairingly: "Of course! just because there's more to be done than ever! Influenza, I suppose?" "I'm afraid it is." "That's five of them down with it now--or is it six? I don't know _what_ to do." "It does seem strange," was the helpless rejoinder of Miss Vivian's secretary. Char thought the adjective inadequate to a degree. She abated not one jot of all that she had undertaken, and accomplished the work of six people. Miss Delmege several times ventured to exclaim, with a sort of respectful despair, that Miss Vivian would kill herself, and Char knew that the rest of the staff was saying much the same thing behind her back. At Plessing Miss Bruce remonstrated admiringly, and exclaimed every day how tired Char was looking, throwing at the same time a rather resentful glance upon Lady Vivian. But Joanna remained quite unperceiving of the dark lines deepening daily beneath her daughter's heavy eyes. She was entirely absorbed in Sir Piers, becoming daily more dependent upon her.