I

“There!” said Isabel, with a last reassuring pat at Jane’s blue muslin train. “You look lovely.”

Jane tried to peer through the bevy of bridesmaids into the tall mirror that was hung on the dim brown walls of the vestibule of Saint James’s Church. They all looked lovely, she thought. They were carrying great shower bouquets of pink sweet peas over their muslin flounces and they wore broad-brimmed hats of pale blue straw. Rosalie looked loveliest of all, and as young as anyone. No one would ever have guessed, thought Jane, that Rosalie was twenty-five, or that she was going to have a baby before the summer was over. Jane would never have known about the baby if Isabel hadn’t told her.

Isabel had dropped in at the improvised dressing-room for a private view of Muriel’s wedding dress. Muriel hadn’t come yet. When Jane peeked through the curtains she could see the late afternoon sunshine slanting in at the west door of the church and the wedding guests entering by twos and threes, hushing their laughter as they crossed the vestibule, waiting in silence for the frock-coated, boutonniered ushers to take them in charge at the inner door. The organ was playing the Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann. Jane could hear it quite distinctly.

Isabel’s eyes were wandering over the bridesmaids.

“Where’s Flora?” she asked.

“She’s not here yet,” said Jane.

“Was her luncheon for Muriel fun today?” asked Isabel.

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Was Mrs. Furness there?” Isabel lowered her voice.

“No,” said Jane. She had been sorry not to see Flora’s mother. Jane had hardly had a glimpse of her all spring. She had carried Flora off to St. Augustine immediately after Christmas and when they returned in February she had left town again at once, to visit her sister-in-law, Stephen Carver’s mother, in Boston. Stephen had said she had been very gay there. She looked tired, Jane had thought, when she came home.

“I do wonder⁠—” began Isabel.

Her voice was a mere murmur. Jane moved away from her a little impatiently. She knew very well what Isabel wondered. Isabel and her mother had been wondering it all week. So had lots of other people, to judge from the wealth of opinion that they had managed to quote on the question. Would Flora’s mother come to Muriel’s wedding? Would she walk up the aisle at her husband’s side and take her place in the pew reserved for Flora’s family to see Muriel marry Mr. Bert Lancaster? Isabel had been inclined to think that she would never have the nerve to do it. Jane’s mother had declared that you could always do what you had to do, and that she would be very much surprised if Lily Furness didn’t carry it all off beautifully.

For Jane this continued speculation had quite spoiled the wedding. Other things had spoiled it, too, of course. The parties before it hadn’t been so very gay. The ushers were all old men, for one thing, not one under thirty-five. And for another, Mrs. Lester, who was usually so jolly and easygoing, had never succeeded in looking really happy about it. She never seemed to achieve with Mr. Bert Lancaster the comfortable maternal approach that she had with Freddy Waters and her son-in-law from Cleveland. Freddy Waters was in the wedding party. All the ushers but one were married. No, the parties hadn’t been so very gay.

“Here’s Muriel now!” cried Isabel eagerly. The bridesmaids all turned from the mirror. Here was Muriel indeed, a transfigured, preoccupied Muriel, trailing great lengths of stiff white satin, her cloudy hair hidden beneath the formal folds of her mother’s lace wedding veil.

“Look out for my train!” was the first thing that Jane heard her say. She was speaking to the maid who was carrying it very carefully over the red velvet carpet.

Mrs. Lester and Edith and Edith’s husband followed her into the dressing-room. Edith’s husband was going to give Muriel away. Old Solomon Lester was too infirm, now, to make the trip from New York to his granddaughter’s wedding. Jane’s mother and Isabel had thought his recent stroke a merciful intervention of Providence. It would be a relief, they said, to have one Lester wedding that was free from the taint of the synagogue.

Mrs. Lester stood silently by Muriel’s elbow, adjusting the wreath of orange blossoms that held the veil in place. Mrs. Lester was growing old, thought Jane. She had on a beautiful gown of wine-colored silk, but her face looked very worn and tired.

The bridesmaids made an aisle so that Muriel could look in the mirror. She stood quite still and straight, smiling into the glass. Edith and Rosalie and the maid began to arrange the long folds of the satin train. Muriel’s gloved hands were clasped on a white vellum prayer book. The third finger of the left glove was slit, so that Mr. Lancaster could slip on her wedding ring.

Jane felt very solemn as she looked at her. She thought of all the years that she had known Muriel. She couldn’t remember the time, really, before she had known her. In a way this was worse than Isabel’s wedding. Isabel had been twenty-three. Her big sister. And Jane had loved Robin. Muriel was⁠—just Muriel. A kid, really, like Jane herself. And yet she was getting married. To Mr. Bert Lancaster. It all seemed very sad and terribly irrevocable. It would be dreadful to be getting married, thought Jane.

Muriel turned from the mirror.

“See my pearls, girls,” she said brightly. “Aren’t they lovely? Bert sent them this morning.”

Jane winked away her tears. The bridesmaids circled about the pearls with little cries of admiration.

“I must go,” said Isabel. She kissed Muriel and turned toward the curtain. Flora was just coming in. Jane caught a glimpse of Mr. Furness standing alone in the outer vestibule beyond. Isabel joined him.

“How lovely Flora looks!” said Isabel brightly. “What a beautiful day for a wedding!” They turned toward the church door in the slanting sunshine. Jane wasn’t deceived for a moment by Isabel’s airy inconsequence. Jane knew that before Isabel sank decorously on her knees beside her mother in the third left-hand pew, she would whisper that Mrs. Furness hadn’t come.

Edith was kissing Muriel, when Jane turned around.

“Come, Mother,” she said.

Mrs. Lester took Muriel in her arms. Mrs. Lester was frankly crying.

“Don’t muss her veil!” cried Rosalie.

Mrs. Lester relinquished her daughter. Rosalie rearranged Muriel’s draperies. The Cleveland brother-in-law offered his arm.

“How’s your nerve?” he asked cheerfully.

“Fine!” said Muriel. Her eyes were dancing behind the folds of white lace. Her cheeks were very pink.

“Come, Mother,” said Edith again. They turned toward the church door.

Jane fell into line with Flora. They were to be the first pair of bridesmaids. The ushers were lining up in the vestibule. The one in front of Jane was quite bald. He had one absurd long brown lock of hair, combed carefully over the thin place on top of his head. Flora nodded at it and nudged Jane’s arm and giggled. The organ throbbed forth a solemn premonitory strain. The ushers began to move slowly through the inner door. The first notes of the Lohengrin wedding march swelled out over the heads of the congregation.

Jane and Flora walked very slowly, keeping their distance carefully from the ushers in front of them. Jane held her head very high and her shower bouquet very stiffly so her hands wouldn’t tremble. The church looked very dark, after the afternoon sunshine, and the aisle very long indeed. Over the heads of the ushers Jane could see the green palms and the white Easter lilies and the twinkling candles of the altar. They seemed very far away.

The pews were crowded with people, all rustling and moving and craning their necks to look at the wedding party as it went by. Jane suddenly remembered the Commencement procession in the Bryn Mawr chapel. She turned her head very slightly, half expecting to see Agnes’s funny freckled face under a black mortarboard at her side. But no. There was Flora’s pure pale profile beneath the blue straw hat-brim. Her lips were curved, just the least little bit, in a self-conscious smile. Her step was a trifle unsteady. Jane felt her own smile growing set and strained and her own knees wobbling disconcertingly. It was hard to walk so slowly, with so many people staring.

Suddenly she noticed Mr. Bert Lancaster. He was standing with the best man at the left hand of old Dr. Winter, the clergyman, on the chancel steps. He looked very calm and handsome, just as he always did. Just as Jane had seen him look at innumerable other weddings, that were not his own. The ushers were forming in two rows along the chancel steps. Jane and Flora passed them slowly, separated and took their places at the head of the line. Jane could see Muriel now. Her head was bowed under the white lace veil. At the chancel steps she raised it suddenly and smiled at Mr. Bert Lancaster. Mr. Lancaster wheeled to face the clergyman. Jane could see both their faces now, upturned toward the altar. They were so near her that it seemed indecent to look at them, at such a moment. Jane turned away her eyes.

The organ sobbed and throbbed and sank into silence. The voice of the clergyman could be distinctly heard.

“Dearly beloved brethren, we are met together in the sight of God and this company to join together this man and this woman in the holy estate of matrimony⁠—”

“This woman,” thought Jane. Muriel was a woman, of course, not a kid any longer. Muriel was twenty. Jane would be twenty, herself, next month. Flora was twenty-one. They were grown up, all of them. Capable of entering the holy estate of matrimony, if, and when, they chose. Mrs. Lester had hated this marriage. But she hadn’t stopped it. She couldn’t stop Muriel. Nevertheless, Jane knew that if Muriel had been her mother’s child something would have been done. Still⁠—Jane wondered. Muriel was⁠—Muriel. Greek would have met Greek. Jane’s mother, at any rate, Jane knew very well, would always prevent Jane from doing anything that she didn’t think was wise. But who, Jane wondered, was the best judge of wisdom? Didn’t you know yourself, really, better than anyone, what you really wanted, what was the real right thing for you?

André⁠—Jane knew, now, of course, that the family couldn’t have let her marry him at seventeen. She couldn’t even imagine, now, what their life would have been together, what her life would have been without all those other experiences that had crowded into it since she had closed the door on that early romance. Bryn Mawr and all the things she had learned there. Agnes and Marion and, yes, Miss Thomas, with her flaming torch of enlightenment, and that gay, carefree life in Pembroke Hall. The beauty of the Bryn Mawr countryside. This last year, too, with its funny frivolities, its social amenities, its growing friendships with people that Jane knew, really, in her heart of hearts, were awfully unlike herself. All those experiences were part of her, now. Inalienable. Not ever to be ignored, or belittled, or set lightly aside.

But, nevertheless, there was the memory of that incredible joy of companionship that she had known with André. That identity of interest, that tremulous sense of intimacy, that glorious dawning of emotion.

The sound of Muriel’s voice roused her from revery.

“I, Muriel, take thee, Albert, for my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward⁠—”

“From this day forward”⁠—solemn, irrevocable words. How could Muriel say them? Some marriages lasted for fifty years. How could anyone say them? How could she have been so sure, so very sure, with André? She hadn’t thought about the fifty years at all. Jane felt quite certain it was just because she had been seventeen. She hadn’t reflected. She hadn’t considered. She would never feel like that, thought Jane with a little shiver, about anyone ever again.

The ring was being slipped on Muriel’s finger. Mr. Lancaster’s firm voice rang out in those irrelevant words about his worldly goods. Jane had always considered them a blot on the wedding service. The clergyman was uttering his last solemn adjuration.

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

The organ was tuning up with the first shrill pipes of the Mendelssohn wedding march. Muriel, her veil thrown back from her lovely flushed face, had turned, on Mr. Lancaster’s arm, to walk down the aisle. Rosalie and the best man had fallen in behind them. Jane and Flora turned smartly to move in their turn. The organ pealed joyously on. High up above their heads the chimes in the steeple were ringing. The march down the aisle was executed much more quickly. Jane kept recognizing the faces turned up to her, from the aisle seats of pews. She smiled and nodded gaily as she went. The recessional had taken on a very festal air. All sense of solemnity was lost.

Jane caught a glimpse of Stephen Carver, staring at her face from his seat beside Mr. Furness. She almost laughed, he looked so very serious. He smiled back, just as he passed from her field of vision. The church doors were open. The vestibule was a confusion of bridesmaids. Great crowds of people were pressing against the awning to see the wedding party come out. Jane jumped into a waiting hansom with Flora. They must hurry over to the reception. Jane wanted, awfully, to give Muriel a great hug for luck. She wanted to stand in line and laugh and be gay and talk to all the people. Weddings were fun, always, if you could just forget the ceremony. Jane felt she had forgotten it. And Flora was chattering gaily about the bridesmaids’ dresses. Flora was so glad they were blue. She was going to take out the yoke and turn hers into an evening gown. The cab drew up at Muriel’s door. There was another crowd around this second awning. Jane and Flora ran quickly, hand in hand, up over the red carpet.

Muriel and Mr. Lancaster were standing, side by side, under a great bell of smilax. No one had come, yet, but the ushers and bridesmaids. Jane flung her arms around Muriel in a great rush of feeling. Muriel looked perfectly lovely. Jane almost kissed Mr. Lancaster in the strength of her enthusiasm. But not quite.

II

Jane woke next morning a little weary from the festivities of the wedding. The reception had ended in a buffet supper for the nearest friends of the family. Later there had been dancing. Mr. and Mrs. Albert Lancaster had left about half-past nine in the evening. It had all been over by ten.

Isabel and Robin had strolled down Huron Street with Mr. and Mrs. Ward and Jane. The April night was pleasantly warm. They had parted from Mr. Furness and Flora under the awning.

“I really admire Mr. Furness,” Isabel had commented as soon as they were out of hearing, “for the way he stuck it out all evening.”

“He had to⁠—for Flora,” Mrs. Ward had said.

“Just the same,” said Isabel, “he behaved beautifully with Bert.”

“He always has,” said Mrs. Ward; then added meditatively, “and you must remember that Bert Lancaster’s marriage may simplify things in the end.”

Jane had thought silently of Flora’s mother. She had thought of her more than once during the party. She couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Furness was finding to do, all alone at home all evening with Folly, the pug, in that big brownstone house. She wondered again, as she was dressing for breakfast.

Jane sauntered downstairs, humming the first piping bars of the Mendelssohn wedding march. Muriel and Bert were well on their way to the Canadian Rockies, by now. As soon as she entered the dining-room, she saw that something dreadful had happened.

Her father was standing at the window, his back to the table, gazing out at the bright amber branches of the budding willow tree. Her mother was in her accustomed place behind the coffee urn, but her chair was pushed back, her napkin was on the table, and her eyes were fixed questioningly on her husband’s motionless figure. Her face had a curiously shocked expression. Jane paused a moment, fearfully, on the threshold.

“What’s⁠—what’s the matter?” she asked.

Her mother turned slowly to look at her. The colour had quite gone out of her face.

“Lily Furness has killed herself,” she said.

“Wh⁠—what?” said Jane. She couldn’t take it in, just at first. She leaned a little helplessly against the door jamb.

“She killed herself last night⁠—after supper,” said Mrs. Ward excitedly. “She turned on the gas in the bathroom. Mr. Furness found her there when he came home.”

Jane walked weakly over to the breakfast table and sat down in her chair.

“Killed herself?” she asked stupidly. “Flora’s mother is dead?” It was the first death that Jane had ever known.

“They couldn’t bring her ’round,” said Mrs. Ward. “They had to break down the door. They worked over her for hours. They didn’t give her up until long after midnight. Stephen Carver telephoned this morning.”

“How⁠—perfectly⁠—terrible!” said Jane, through stiff lips. Words seemed dreadfully inadequate.

Mr. Ward turned suddenly from his contemplation of the willow tree.

“Eat some breakfast, kid,” he said gently. He walked over to Jane and put his hand on her shoulder.

“What will Flora do?” cried Jane. Her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

“Lily Furness should have thought of that,” said Mrs. Ward.

Jane’s father looked at his wife very soberly.

“Will you give me a cup of coffee, Lizzie?” he said. He sat down quietly at his end of the table.

“I⁠—I want to go over to Flora,” said Jane suddenly. “She’ll be all alone⁠—with Muriel gone.” A sudden memory of whom Muriel had gone with froze the words on her lips.

“Eat your breakfast first, kid,” said her father. Her mother handed him his coffee cup. “Ring for Minnie, Lizzie,” he said.

Minnie came in very promptly with the steaming cereal. Her face looked shocked, too, but discreetly curious and very subtly, delicately pleased. Jane felt that Minnie was enjoying disaster. She choked down a few spoonfuls of oatmeal and bolted a cup of scalding coffee.

“I’m going, now,” she said. She rose as she spoke.

“Jane”⁠—her mother’s voice was just a little doubtful⁠—“I don’t quite like your going over there, so soon⁠—all alone⁠—”

“I want to go,” said Jane. “I want to be with Flora.”

“I think you had better wait,” said Mrs. Ward, “until I can go with you.”

Jane stood irresolutely beside her chair.

“Let her go, Lizzie,” said Mr. Ward. “She may be able to do something for that poor child.”

Jane’s mother’s face was still a little doubtful, but she made no further objection as Jane turned toward the door.

“How Lily Furness could do this to Muriel,” Jane heard her say, very solemnly. “It will kill Mrs. Lester.”

“I think the honours are still Muriel’s,” said Mr. Ward gravely. “She did a good deal to Lily Furness first.”

Jane walked very slowly and soberly down Pine Street in the brilliant April sunshine. The grass plots were already green and there was an emerald mist on the plume-like boughs of the elm trees. The streets were quite deserted, save for a milk wagon or two and an occasional bicycle. Jane saw the first robin, prospecting for worms, under Flora’s budding lilac bushes.

The shades were all drawn down in the big brownstone house. Halfway up the front steps, Jane stopped in dismay. She hadn’t expected to see the great bow of purple silk and the huge bunch of violets on the doorbell. She didn’t quite know whether to ring it or not. As she stood hesitantly in the vestibule, the door was opened silently. The Furnesses’ elderly butler stood gravely on the threshold. His face looked very old and grey and tired and his eyes were sunken. Jane suddenly realized that he had been crying. As she stepped into the silent hall she felt her own eyes fill quickly with tears.

The house was very dark, because of the drawn window shades. A great vase of Easter lilies stood on the hall table. Their pure, penetrating perfume suddenly recalled the church chancel of yesterday.

“May⁠—may I see Miss Flora?” asked Jane.

Suddenly she heard a masculine step behind the drawing-room portieres. The tall, slim figure of Stephen Carver was framed in their green folds. His eager young face looked strangely serious. His manner was curiously hushed and formal. Nevertheless, his eyes lit up when he saw Jane.

“Jane!” he said softly. “How like you to come!” He walked quickly over to her side.

“How is Flora?” asked Jane. “Can I see her?”

“She’s in her room,” said Stephen. “I haven’t seen her, myself, since⁠—last night.”

“Is⁠—is she⁠—terribly broken up?” asked Jane.

Stephen nodded gravely.

“And Mr. Furness?” questioned Jane. She hoped very much that she would not have to meet Mr. Furness.

“He’s with⁠—Aunt Lily,” said Stephen. “He’s been there right along. I don’t think he’s slept at all.” There was a little pause. “I just came over to answer the telephone,” said Stephen.

“Do you think,” said Jane hesitantly, “that I could go upstairs?”

“I’ll take you up,” said Stephen.

Side by side they mounted the staircase in silence. In the upper hall Jane was vaguely conscious of a faint, penetrating odour. It was almost imperceptible, but Jane recognized it at once. The great round red gas tanks on Division Street smelled that way, sometimes, when you bicycled past them.

The door to Flora’s mother’s room was closed. As they went by, Jane stumbled over something in the darkness⁠—something small and soft and living. Jane knew, instantly, before she looked, that it was Folly, the pug, lying on the hall carpet, his little wrinkled muzzle pressed tightly against the crack of the door.

“Oh⁠—Stephen!” she said faintly. Folly seemed terribly pathetic. It was incredible to think that little, old, rheumatic Folly was living, when Flora’s mother⁠—Flora’s brilliant, young, gay mother⁠—was dead. Irrevocably dead.

Stephen pressed Jane’s hand in the darkness. Then she saw the bathroom door. There was a Chinese screen drawn around it, but Jane could see the splintered panels over the top. In the hushed order of that silent corridor, those broken, battered bits of wood assaulted the eye with the brutality of a blow.

Stephen paused before Flora’s door. Jane tapped lightly.

“Flora,” she said, “it’s Jane.”

“Come in, Jane,” said Flora’s tearful voice. Jane opened the door and closed it again upon Stephen Carver.

Flora was sitting up in her little brass bed, surrounded with pillows. She looked incredibly childlike and appealing, with her long yellow hair falling around her little tear-blanched face and the great tear-stained circles under her wide blue eyes. She held out her arms to Jane. Jane hugged her passionately.

“Flora,” she said, “do you know how I loved your mother?” Jane was a little shocked to observe how easily she had slipped into the past tense. Flora’s mother seemed dreadfully dead, already.

“Everyone loved her,” said Flora brokenly.

“Everyone,” thought Jane, “but one. And that one⁠—”

Jane found herself wondering, with the horrible curiosity of Isabel, if Flora knew.

“She never came to, at all,” said Flora presently. “Her⁠—her heart had stopped. I⁠—I don’t see how it could have happened. She was locked in the bathroom. She⁠—she must have fainted.”

Jane’s horrible curiosity was satisfied.

She sat quite still on the bed, holding Flora’s hand in hers. There did not seem to be much to say. The old heart-shaped picture frame had been moved from the dressing-table to the bed stand. Within its silver circumference Flora’s mother smiled radiantly over her feather fan. Alone on the dressing-table Mr. Furness stared solemnly from his silver heart. He looked as out of place there as ever. Jane’s mind wandered, uncontrollably, to Flora’s mother’s problem. She felt she understood perfectly. Flora’s mother’s heart was just another silver frame. Fat, puffy Mr. Furness, with his pale, popping eyes, and grey moustache, had never really belonged there. Life was dreadful, thought Jane.

There was a gentle tap on the door. The discreet voice of a maid was heard.

“Miss Flora⁠—Mrs. Lester has called.”

Flora looked doubtfully at Jane.

“Shall I tell her to come up?” she asked.

Jane nodded. Mrs. Lester could always be counted on.

The maid departed with the message. Presently there was a second tap at the door. Jane rose as Mrs. Lester entered the room. Mrs. Lester’s enormous bulk was shimmering in dull black taffeta. Under her little black bonnet, her face looked terribly old and yellow and shocked and sad. Her kind dark eyes were weary and bloodshot. Their whites were ivory yellow. Jane realized, suddenly, how grey Mrs. Lester’s black hair had grown during this last year. In her arms she held a bunch of white roses and a big cardboard dress box.

“Flora, dear,” she said very gently, “I’ve come to do anything I can for you.” She laid the roses down on the bed. Flora picked them up and buried her face in them and suddenly began to cry.

“Flora, dear,” said Mrs. Lester again, “you’ll need help. You and your dear father are very much alone.” She sat down in an armchair that Jane had drawn forward and began to open the dress box. “I’ve brought you the little black frock, dear,” she said, her hands busy with the wrappings, “that Rosalie wore last year for Freddy’s father. I think it will just about fit you. You can wear it until your new things come home. You must let Rosalie shop for you, Flora. You must let everyone help you.”

Flora continued to cry, silently, into the roses. She didn’t look at the black frock at all. Jane had forgotten all about mourning.

“You’d better get up, dear,” continued Mrs. Lester steadily; “you’ll feel better if you’re doing something.”

“There’s⁠—nothing⁠—to do,” sobbed Flora.

“There’s lots to do for your poor father,” said Mrs. Lester sadly.

“Papa doesn’t⁠—want me!” faltered Flora. “He⁠—he’s with Mamma. He’s locked the door. He doesn’t want me at all.”

A sudden spasm of pain seemed to pass over Mrs. Lester’s face. The absurd little mouth above its double chins quivered, uncontrollably. Mrs. Lester took her handkerchief out of her little silver chatelaine. She wiped her eyes, quite frankly.

“He will want you, Flora,” she said. “Come, dear, get up now. The thing to do is always to keep busy.”

Flora obediently slipped from beneath the bedclothes. She looked very slim and frail in her long white nightgown.

“We’ll stay with you, dear,” said Mrs. Lester kindly, “while you dress.”

Flora moved silently about the room, collecting her underclothes. The blue muslin bridesmaid’s dress still lay in a heap on a chair. Jane rose to pick it up. She smoothed its crumpled folds and hung it up, very carefully, in Flora’s closet. Flora sat down before her mirror to comb her yellow hair. She was looking much better already. Mrs. Lester was right. The thing to do was to keep busy.

“I⁠—I somehow forgot about Muriel,” said Flora presently, with a wan little smile. “Of course you haven’t heard from them yet, Mrs. Lester?”

Mrs. Lester had risen and was shaking out Rosalie’s black gown. She looked a little startled.

“No, dear,” she said. “No⁠—I haven’t.”

“Of course,” said Flora, “they’re still on the train.”

A forgotten fragment of something rose up in Jane’s mind. Something very far away and almost forgotten. What was it? Oh⁠—of course! “In the meantime Aeneas unwaveringly pursued his way across the waters.” Faithless Aeneas! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It was just like Dido. Dido, who had loved and lost and died a gallant lady. Why did books seem so different from life?

When Flora’s curls were coiled in place she rose and took the black dress from Mrs. Lester’s hands. Mrs. Lester hooked it up the back for her.

“It fits you beautifully,” she said.

Flora looked very white and thin in the sepulchral folds. And strangely older. She moved to the bed to pick up the white roses. As she did so another discreet tap sounded at the door.

“Mrs. Ward, Miss Flora,” said the voice of the maid.

“I⁠—I’ll come down,” said Flora. They moved silently together out of the room. Jane didn’t look at the bathroom door again. Folly was still keeping his vigil. They stepped around him and went down the staircase.

Mrs. Ward was waiting in the green-and-gold drawing-room. She was standing up in the centre of the room, under the crystal chandelier. Stephen Carver was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Ward took Flora in her arms and kissed her very kindly. She smiled then, gravely, at Mrs. Lester. Jane caught the faint glint of appraisal in her eye. Mrs. Lester looked terribly sad and broken and somehow unprotected. Jane was sorry she did.

“Flora, dear,” began Mrs. Ward, taking a little package from under her arm, “I’ve brought you the crepe veil I wore for my own dear mother. A young girl like you will only need crepe for the funeral⁠—” Mrs. Ward drew the veil from its wrappings. It was very long and black and crinkly and it smelled faintly of dye. Mrs. Ward sat down on a little gold sofa. The veil trailed over the skirt of her light grey street dress. Flora looked at it in silence. Mrs. Lester sank wearily down in a gilt bergère. Mrs. Ward looked up at Flora as if she didn’t know just what to say to her. Then she patted the sofa seat beside her.

“Come and sit down, dear,” said Mrs. Ward. “I want to talk to you about your dear mother.”

Flora sank obediently on the green brocade cushions. She turned her big blue eyes silently on Mrs. Ward.

“Flora,” said Mrs. Ward very solemnly, “this is a very terrible thing. I don’t know what you’ve been thinking, but I just want to tell you that I have always felt that we should never judge others. We must keep our charity. You must remember always only the best in your mother. You must try to forget everything else. You may be very sure that everyone else will forget it too⁠—”

A sudden noise in the hall made Jane turn suddenly to stare at the door. Mr. Furness stood there, between the green brocade portieres. His puffy face was livid and swollen and his pale blue eyes looked very, very angry. His mouth was trembling under his grey moustache. He was positively glaring at Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Lester and Jane.

“Stop talking about my wife!” he said suddenly. His angry voice rang out in the silent room. “Stop talking about her at least until you are out of this house!”

Mrs. Ward rose slowly to her feet, staring at Mr. Furness’s distorted face.

“I want to speak to my daughter,” said Mr. Furness. “I want to speak to her alone.” He advanced belligerently into the room. Mrs. Ward began to move with dignity toward the door. The black crepe veil fell at her feet. Mr. Furness pointed to it contemptuously.

“Take those trappings with you,” he said.

Mrs. Ward stooped, without a word, and picked up the veil. Two little spots of colour were flaming in her cheeks. She walked with composure from the room, however, her head held high. She never even glanced at Mr. Furness or at Flora. Flora, who was standing in terrified silence by the sofa, a little black streak in the gold-and-green splendour of the room.

Mrs. Lester rose hesitatingly, and moved unsteadily to Mr. Furness’s elbow. He glared at her in silence. He might never have seen her before. Mrs. Lester put out her hand and gently touched his arm. Her face was working strangely. Jane saw her try to speak, then shake her head, and stand staring at Mr. Furness while great tears gathered in her dark eyes and rolled, unheeded, down her fat, sagging cheeks. Mr. Furness just kept on glaring, like a crazy man. Mrs. Lester dropped his arm, after a minute, and followed Jane’s mother out into the hall. She hadn’t uttered a word. Jane scurried after them. She suddenly realized that she was crying. Jane’s mother was standing beside Mrs. Lester and Stephen Carver near the front door. Stephen looked awfully concerned. Mrs. Ward was talking very excitedly.

“I don’t blame him,” she was saying, “I don’t blame him a particle. He was like one distraught. And I don’t wonder⁠—with all the disgrace!”

Jane suddenly realized that Stephen Carver had seen her tears. He was looking down at her very tenderly. Mrs. Lester was getting her mother to the door.

“Jane⁠—don’t!” said Stephen. His arm was half around her. He looked very understanding.

“It’s just that Mamma⁠—” faltered Jane, “Mamma shouldn’t talk so.”

“It is a disgrace,” said Stephen solemnly.

Jane felt terribly shocked. He didn’t understand at all, after all.

“Oh⁠—no!” she said faintly. “It’s just⁠—tragedy.” Stephen still stared at her, quite uncomprehending. “Never⁠—disgrace,” said Jane. “She loved him.”

Stephen was looking at her as if he found her words quite unintelligible. Jane slipped through the front door. Her mother, on the steps, was still talking volubly to Mrs. Lester.

“I don’t think he knew what he was saying or to whom he was speaking,” she said eagerly. “But how he’ll explain it to Flora⁠—”

Jane silently followed them down to the sidewalk. She felt strangely calmed and exalted. A finished life was a very solemn, very splendid thing. She didn’t care what her mother said, now. Death had an unassailable dignity.

“And it’s not only the disgrace,” her mother was murmuring earnestly. “The whole thing seems so terribly sordid⁠—turning on the gas like that⁠—in a bathroom⁠—like any woman of the streets. Lily Furness had always so much pride.”

“I have lived and accomplished the task that Destiny gave me,” thought Jane very solemnly, “and now I shall pass beneath the earth no common shade.”