"What did she want? What did she want?" persisted Laura. "Well, first of all she wanted your father--every minute of him, every thought, every heart-beat. He couldn't give it to her, my dear. No man could. I tell you I have lived to a great age, and I have known great people, and I have never seen the man yet who could give a woman all the love she wanted. Women seem to be born with a kind of divination--a second sight where love is concerned--they aren't content with the mere husk, and yet that is all that the most of them ever get--" "But my father?" protested Laura; "he broke his heart for her." A smile at the fine ironic humour of existence crossed the old man's sunken lips. "He gave to her dead what she had never had from him living," he returned. "When she was gone everything--even the man's life for which he had sacrificed her--turned worthless. He always had the seeds of consumption, I suppose, and his gnawing remorse caused them to develop." A short silence followed his words, while Laura stared at him with eyes which seemed to weigh gravely the meaning of his words. Then, rising hurriedly, she made a gesture as if throwing the subject from her and walked rapidly to the door. "Aunt Rosa and Aunt Sophy are coming to dine," she said, "so I must glance at the table. I can't remember now whether I ordered the oysters or not." The old man glanced after her with timid disappointment. "So you haven't time to hear me play?" he asked wistfully. "Not now--there's Aunt Angela's dinner to be seen to. If Mr. Bleeker comes with Aunt Sophy you can play to him. He likes it." "But he always goes to sleep, Laura. He doesn't listen--and besides he snores so that I can't enjoy my own music." "That's because he'd rather snore than do anything else. I wouldn't let that worry me an instant. He goes to sleep at the opera." She went out, and after giving a few careful instructions to a servant in the dining-room, ascended the staircase to the large square room in the left wing where Angela remained a wilful prisoner. As she opened the door she entered into a mist of dim candle light, by which her aunt was pacing restlessly up and down the length of the apartment.