With her back to the door and close to the head of the bed, Theresa peeped at her mother, who lay with closed eyes, then glanced admiringly at Grace, who was not afraid of acting nurse, who could lower her voice naturally and divine needs before they were felt. Theresa envied her: she was so quiet, so sure and kind--so lovely! She watched her as she bent over her mother, and the easy curve of her body was so fresh and perfect that the clothes seemed to fall away, leaving her pristine and unencumbered. Theresa's soul ached at such beauty and with desire for it. She felt awkward, useless, in the way. She could not help her mother, for all her cleverness; indeed, she had driven her to this bed over which Grace, whom she sometimes despised for her flirtations and frivolity, could lean with such tenderness and skill. There was something fine in Grace, and she felt herself shrivelling. Doubts swept her. Where were the capacities in which she had believed? Oh, but she would be great! She must begin at once. She could not be wasted. She felt the strength of her energy leaping in her, and her feet scraped the shabbily stained boards on which she stood. Grace raised a hand that commanded silence, and tiptoed to the door. "She's asleep, I think. Is he coming? Soon?" Theresa nodded. They whispered on the landing. "Is she going to die?" "Don't!" "But I must know. It was me that did it. I was angry. I didn't know her heart was really bad. I'd like to tell her that, if she's going to die." "You mustn't speak to her." "But if she dies without knowing----" Grace's soft eyes were scornful. "She knows all you could tell her, child! You'd kill her with your fussings, and I'm not going to let her die. She shall not. I want her." "You're not the only one!" "I must go back." Grace slipped into the room and Theresa sat down on the stairs, while tears of angry pain rolled into her neck. She disdained to dry them: their wetness and the after-stiffening of their channels were balm to soreness, and she could forget her fault in pity for herself, because no one understood her, because her feelings were such a torturing, yet somehow delightful medley, past the power of her own mind to unravel. The doctor's report was immediately comforting, but not very hopeful for the future. Edward Webb learnt that his wife's heart was very weak, that all excitement and worry must be spared her, that a shock would probably kill her. "She shall not have a shock," he said, lifting his grey face. "She must be saved anxiety." "She shall be." "She had better do nothing energetic." "Certainly not." He frowned heavily, as though he saw difficulties here. "Women," said the doctor genially, "are difficult to manage. They think they're indispensable, and they're right--but Mrs. Webb must be persuaded that she's not. You're fortunate in having daughters. Miss Grace is very capable. She has a head. I think you can rely on her."