“I don't know,” said Stella, taking her arm, and pulling her towards the door. “Let's get out of this room, anyway. Oh aunt, don't, for God's sake!”

Miss Matthews allowed herself to be led away, but continued to weep. Stella, unable to feel that Gregory Matthews' nature when a little boy could compensate her aunt for all the subsequent years of strife, was impatient of this facile grief, and thankfully gave her into Mary's charge.

Rose, still gulping, quavered a message from Mrs Matthews: Miss Stella was to go to her mother at once.

Mrs Matthews was reclining against her pillows in a most becoming bed jacket, and had evidently had the presence of mind to wipe the expensive night-cream from her face, and apply a dusting of powder. She turned her head as Stella came into the room, and held out a wavering hand. “Oh, my dear child!” she said in an extinguished voice. “Poor Gregory! It has given me a terrible shock. I had a feeling when Rose brought my hot water.”

“Aunt Harriet says it must have been the duck he ate for dinner,” said Stella, still on the verge of a giggle.

Mrs Matthews gave a faint, pained sigh. “No one knows dear Harriet's good points better than I do,” she remarked, “but one can't help being a little sad that her first thoughts in face of a thing like this should be still of mundane things. Do you know, darling, that when Rose told me what had happened I could only think of those beautiful words: “God's ways are—" ”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Stella hastily. “But the point is what ought we to do? Aunt Harriet's having a sort of hysterical fit. Shall I call Guy?”

“Poor Guy!” said his mother. “One would give one's all to keep tragedy away from the young. Somehow—”