The cab stopped. Chesterton came down the steps and opened its door. Nice parlourmaid. Most normal. 'How is Mrs. Wemyss?' asked Miss Entwhistle. 'About the same I believe, ma'am,' said Chesterton; and inquired if she should pay the man. Miss Entwhistle paid the man, and then proceeded up the steps followed by Chesterton carrying her bag. Fine steps. Handsome house. 'Does she know I'm coming?' 'I believe the housemaid did mention it, ma'am.' Nice roomy hall. With a fire it might be quite warm. Fine windows. Good staircase. 'Do you wish for tea, ma'am?' 'No thank you. I should like to go up at once, if I may.' 'If you please, ma'am.' At the turn of the stairs, where the gong was, Miss Entwhistle stood aside and let Chesterton precede her. 'Perhaps you had better go and tell Mrs. Wemyss I am here,' she said. 'If you please, ma'am.' Miss Entwhistle waited, gazing at the gong with the same benevolence she had brought to bear on everything else. Fine gong. She also gazed at the antlers on the wall, for the wall continued to bristle with antlers right up to the top of the house. Magnificent collection. 'If you please, ma'am,' said Chesterton, reappearing, tiptoeing gingerly to the head of the stairs. Miss Entwhistle went up. Chesterton ushered her into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. Miss Entwhistle knew Lucy was small, but not how small till she saw her in the treble bed. There really did appear to be nothing of her except a little round head. 'Why, but you've shrunk!' was her first exclamation. Lucy, who was tucked up to her chin by Lizzie, besides having a wet bandage encased in flannel round her throat, could only move her eyes and smile. She was on the side of the bed farthest from the door, and Miss Entwhistle had to walk round it to reach her. She was still hoarse, but not as voiceless as when Wemyss left in the morning, for Lizzie had been diligently plying her with things like hot honey, and her face, as her eyes followed Miss Entwhistle's approach, was one immense smile. It really seemed too wonderful to be with Aunt Dot again; and there was a peace about being ill, a relaxation from strain, that had made her quiet day, alone in bed, seem sheer bliss. It was so plain that she couldn't move, that she couldn't do anything, couldn't get up and go in trains, that her conscience was at rest in regard to Everard; and she lay in the blessed silence after he left, not minding how much her limbs ached because of the delicious tranquillity of her mind. The window was open, and in the garden the birds were busy. The wind had dropped. Except for the birds there was no sound. Divine quiet. Divine peace. The luxury of it after the week-end, after the birthday, after the honeymoon, was extraordinary. Just to be in bed by oneself seemed an amazingly felicitous condition.