I
      The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested; their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, wondering, deciding, trying to remember where ...
      Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just over? lapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the ceiling.
      ÒDo you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?Ó 
      ÒThe porter?Ó snapped Josephine. ÒWhy ever the porter? What a
very extraordinary idea!Ó
      ÒBecause,Ó said Constantia slowly, Òhe must often have to go to funerals. And I noticed atÑat the cemetery that he only had a bowler.Ó
       She paused. ÒI thought then how very much heÕd appreciate a top-hat. We ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father.Ó
      ÒBut,Ó cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the dark at Constantia, ÒfatherÕs head!Ó And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not of course that she felt in the least like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porterÕs head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under fatherÕs hat. . . . The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said ÒRememberÓ terribly sternly.
     ÒWe can decide to-morrow,Ó she said. Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed.
      ÒDo you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?Ó 
      ÒBlack?Ó almost shrieked Josephine.
      ÒWell, what else?Ó said Constantia. ÒI was thinkingÑit doesnÕt seem quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when weÕre fully dressed, and then when weÕre at home . . .Ó
      ÒBut nobody sees us,Ó said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet came uncovered, and she had to creep up the pillows to get them well under again.
      ÒKate does,Ó said Constantia. ÒAnd the postman very well might.Ó Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her dressing gown, and of ConstantiaÕs favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats.
      ÒI donÕt think itÕs absolutely necessary,Ó said she.
      Silence. Then Constantia said, ÒWe shall have to post the papers with the notice in them tomorrow to catch the Ceylon mail. . . . How many letters have we had up till now?Ó 
      ÒTwenty-three.Ó
      ÒWe miss our dear father so muchÓ she could have cried if sheÕd wanted to. 
      ÒHave you got enough stamps?Ó came from Constantia.
      ÒOh, how can I tell?Ó said Josephine crossly. ÒWhatÕs the good of asking me that now?Ó
      ÒI was just wondering,Ó said Constantia mildly.
      Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. 
      ÒA mouse,Ó said Constantia.
      ÒIt canÕt be a mouse because there arenÕt any crumbs,Ó said Josephine. 
      ÒBut it doesnÕt know there arenÕt,Ó said Constantia.
      A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished sheÕd left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to think of it not finding anything. What would it do?
      ÒI canÕt think how they manage to live at all,Ó she said slowly. 
      ÒWho?Ó demanded Josephine.
      And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, ÒMice.Ó
     Josephine was furious. ÒOh, what nonsense, Con!Ó she said. ÒWhat have mice got to do with it? YouÕre asleep.Ó
      ÒI donÕt think I am,Ó said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure.
      She was.
      Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the pillow.
      II
     Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked her. It was JosephineÕs idea. On the morning-well, on the last morning, when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, ÒDonÕt you think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for a week as our guest? Ò
      ÒVery nice,Ó said Constantia.
      ÒI thought,Ó went on Josephine quickly, ÒI should just say this afternoon, after IÕve paid her, ÔMy sister and I would be very pleased, after all youÕve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a week as our guest.Õ IÕd have to put that in about being our guest in case . . .Ó
      ÒOh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!Ó cried Constantia. 
      ÒOne never knows,Ó said Josephine sagely.
      Nurse Andrews had of course jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, whereas if theyÕd been alone they could just have asked Kate if she wouldnÕt have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And mealtimes now that the strain was over were rather a trial.
     Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldnÕt help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch more bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the last mouthful, absent?mindedlyÑof course it wasnÕt absent-mindedlyÑtaking another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she fastened her small, beadlike eyes on the tablecloth as 1f she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the web of it. But ConstantiaÕs long pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away-away-far over the desert, to where that line of camels unwound like a thread of wool. . .
      ÒWhen I was with Lady Tukes,Ó said Nurse Andrews, Òshe had such a dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid balanced on theÑon the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.Ó
Josephine could hardly bear that. But ÒI think those things are very extravagantÓ was all she said.
      ÒBut whey?Ó asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. ÒNo one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted-would one?Ó
     ÒRing, Con,Ó cried Josephine. She couldnÕt trust herself to reply.
      And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange.
     ÒJam, please, Kate,Ó said Josephine kindly.
      Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on the table and stalked off.
     ÒIÕm afraid,Ó said Nurse Andrews a moment later, Òthere isnÕt any.Ó
     ÓOh, what a bother!Ó said Josephine. She bit her lip. ÒWhat had we better do? Ò
      Constantia looked dubious. ÒWe canÕt disturb Kate again,Ó she said softly.
      Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to her Josephine frowned heavily-concentrated. If it hadnÕt been for this idiotic woman she and Con would of course, have eaten their blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came.
      ÒI know,Ó she said. ÒMarmalade. ThereÕs some marmalade in the side board. Get it Con.Ó
      ÒI hope,Ó laughed Nurse Andrews, and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine-glassÑ ÒI hope itÕs not very bittah marmalayde.
      III
      But, after all, it was not long now, and then sheÕd be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pretending to look at her watch. It couldnÕt have been necessary. It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say somethingÑsomething private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it I He lay there, purple, a dark angry purple in the face, and never even looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! But no-one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then . . . went out.
      IV
      It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. JohnÕs, called the same afternoon.
      ÒThe end was quite peaceful, I trust?Ó were the first words he said as he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room.
      ÒQuite,Ó said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of them felt certain that eye wasnÕt at all a peaceful eye.
      ÒWonÕt you sit down?Ó said Josephine.
      ÒThank you, Miss Pinner,Ó said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded his coat-tails and began to lower himself into fatherÕs armchair, but just as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair instead.
      He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague.
      ÒI want you to feel, Miss Pinner,Ó said Mr. Farolles, Òand you, Miss Constantia, that IÕm trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you both, if you will let me. These are the times,Ó said Mr. Farolles, very simply and earnestly, Òwhen God means us to be helpful to one another.Ó
      ÒThank you very much, Mr. Farolles,Ó said Josephine and Constantia.
      ÒNot at all,Ó said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through his fingers and leaned forward. ÒAnd if either of you would like a little Communion, either or both of you, here and now, you have only to tell me. A little Communion is often very help-a great comfort,Ó he added tenderly.
      But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the drawing-room by themselvesÑwith noÑno altar or anything! The piano would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important-about their mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have to wait in torture?
      ÒPerhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care for it later,Ó said Mr. Farolles.
      ÒOh, yes, thank you very much!Ó they both said.
      Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. ÒAnd about the funeral,Ó he said softly. ÒI may arrange that as your dear fatherÕs old friend and yours, Miss PinnerÑand Miss Constantia?Ó
      Josephine and Constantia got up too.
      ÒI should like it to be quite simple,Ó said Josephine firmly, Òand not too expensive. At the same time I should likeÑÓ
      ÒA good one that will last,Ó thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine were buying a nightgown. But of course Josephine didnÕt say that. ÒOne suitable to our fatherÕs position.Ó She was very nervous.
      ÒIÕll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight,Ó said Mr. Farolles soothingly. ÒI will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will find him very helpful indeed.Ó
      V
      Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. ÒBuried. You two girls had me buried!Ó She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were strangers; they couldnÕt be expected to understand that father was the very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him the bills. What would he say then?
      She heard him absolutely roaring, ÒAnd do you expect me to pay for this gimcrack excursion of yours?Ó
      ÒOh,Ó groaned poor Josephine aloud, Òwe shouldnÕt have done it, Con!Ó
      And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a frightened whisper, ÒDone what, Jug?Ó
      ÒLet them bu-bury father like that,Ó said Josephine, breaking down and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief.
      ÒBut what else could we have done?Ó asked Constantia wonderingly.
      ÒWe couldnÕt have kept him, JugÑwe couldnÕt have kept him unburied. At any rate, not in a flat that size.
      Josephine blewá her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy .
      ÒI donÕt know,Ó she said forlornly. ÒIt is all so dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to just for a time at least. To make perfectly sure. One thingÕs certainÓÑand her tears sprang out againÑ Òfather will never forgive us for thisÑnever!Ó
     VI
      Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on JosephineÕs list of things to be done. Go through fatherÕs things and settle about them. But that was a very different matter from saying after breakfast:
      ÒWell, are you ready, Con?Ó ÒYes, JugÑwhen you are.Ó
     ÒThen I think weÕd better get it over.Ó
      It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to open the door without knocking even. . . . ConstantiaÕs eyes were enormous at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees.
     ÒYouÑyou go first,Ó she gasped, pushing Constantia.
      But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, ÒNo, Jug, thatÕs not fair. YouÕre eldest.Ó
      Josephine was just going to sayÑwhat at other times she wouldnÕt have owned to for the worldÑwhat she kept for her very last weapon, ÒBut youÕre tallest,Ó when they noticed that the kitchen door was open, and there stood Kate. . . .
      ÒVery stiff,Ó said Josephine, grasping the door-handle and doing her best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate!
      It couldnÕt be helped. That girl was. . . . Then the door was shut behind them, butÑbut they werenÕt in fatherÕs room at all. They might have suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to look. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut; Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadnÕt any handle all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or the whitenessÑwhich? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.
      ÒI had better pull up a blind,Ó said Josephine bravely.
      ÒYes, it might be a good idea,Ó whispered Constantia.
      They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flew after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as if trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia.
       ÒDonÕt you think-donÕt you think we might put it off for another day?Ó she whispered.
      ÒWhy?Ó snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that she knew for certain that Constantia was terrified. ÒItÕs got to be done. But I do wish you wouldnÕt whisper, Con.Ó
      ÒI didnÕt know I was whispering,Ó whispered Constantia.
      ÒAnd why do you keep on staring at the bed?Ó said Josephine, raising her voice almost defiantly. ÒThereÕs nothing on the bed.Ó
      ÒOh, Jug, donÕt say soldÓ said poor Connie. ÒAt any rate, not so loudly.Ó
      Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew it back again.
      ÒConnie!Ó she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her back against the chest of drawers.
      ÒOh, JugÑwhat?Ó
      Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was watching there, hidden awayÑjust behind the door-handleÑready to spring.
      She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in the old days when she was going to cry.
      ÒI canÕt open,Ó she nearly wailed.
      ÒNo, donÕt, Jug,Ó whispered Constantia earnestly. ÒItÕs much better not to. DonÕt letÕs open anything. At any rate, not for a long time.Ó
      ÒButÑbut it seems so weak,Ó said Josephine, breaking down.
      ÒBut why not be weak for once, Jug?Ó argued Constantia, whispering quite fiercely. ÒIf it is weak.Ó And her pale stare flew from the locked writing-tableÑso safeÑto the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began to breathe in a queer, panting way. ÒWhy shouldnÕt we be weak for once in our lives, Jug? ItÕs quite excusable. LetÕs be weakÑbe weak, Jug. ItÕs much nicer to be weak than to be strong.Ó
      And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that sheÕd done about twice before in their lives; she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile that she knew what sheÕd done. SheÕd risked deliberately father being in there among his overcoats.
      If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, and crashed down on Constantia, Josephine wouldnÕt have been surprised. On the contrary. She would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and bigger flakes of cold air fell on JosephineÕs shoulders and knees. She began to shiver.
      ÒCome, Jug,Ó said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, and Josephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia had pushed Benny into the round pond.
      VII
      But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room.
They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other.
      ÒI donÕt feel I can settle to anything,Ó said Josephine, Òuntil IÕve had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?Ó
      ÒI really donÕt see why we shouldnÕt,Ó said Constantia carefully. She was quite normal again. ÒI wonÕt ring. IÕll go to the kitchen door and ask her.Ó
      ÒYes, do,Ó said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. ÒTell her, just two cups, Con, nothing elseÑon a tray.Ó
      ÒShe neednÕt even put the jug on, need she?Ó said Constantia, as though Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there.
      ÒOh, no, certainly not! The jugÕs not at all necessary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle,Ó cried Josephine, feeling that would be a labour?saving indeed.
      Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy steam, making it flutter from one side to the other.
      ÒSpeaking of Benny,Ó said Josephine.
      And though Benny hadnÕt been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as though he had.
      ÒHeÕll expect us to send him something of fatherÕs, of course. But itÕs so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.Ó
      ÒYou mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,Ó murmured Constantia.
      ÒNo, lost,Ó said Josephine sharply. ÒYou know thereÕs no post. Only runners.Ó
      Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. JosephineÕs black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about ConstantiaÕs tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed. . . . On the verandah, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as fatherÕs did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the Tatler.
      ÒI think his watch would be the most suitable present,Ó said Josephine.
      Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.
      ÒOh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?Ó
      ÒBut of course IÕd disguise it,Ó said Josephine. ÒNo one would know it as a watch.Ó She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it-was. She even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard corset-box that sheÕd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to come in for something. It was such beautiful firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldnÕt be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: Medium WomenÕs 28. Extra Firm Busks. It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open that and find fatherÕs watch inside.
      ÒAnd of course it isnÕt as though it would be going- ticking, I mean,Ó said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. ÒAt least,Ó she added, Òit would be very strange if after all that time it was.Ó
     VIII
      Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. WasnÕt it more usual for the only grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from yearÕs end to yearÕs end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. ÒI see youÕve got on grandfatherÕs watch, Cyril.Ó It would be somehow so satisfactory.
     Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate.
      ÒIt would have been such a point, having him,Ó said Josephine.
      ÒAnd he would have enjoyed it so,Ó said Constantia, not thinking what she was saying.
      However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.
      ÒNow, Cyril, you mustnÕt be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con and I bought them at BuszardÕs this morning. We know what a manÕs appetite is. So donÕt be ashamed of making a good tea.Ó
      Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and heeling of ConstantiaÕs only respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.
     ÒI say, Aunt Josephine, I simply canÕt. IÕve only just had lunch, you know.ÕÕ
      ÒOh, Cyril, that canÕt be true! ItÕs after four,Ó cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll.
      ÒIt is, all the same,Ó said Cyril. ÒI had to meet a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about till . . . there was only time to get lunch and to come on here. And he gave meÑphew . . .Ó Cyril put his hand to his
forehead. ÒA terrific blow-outÓ he said.
      It was disappointingÑto-day of all days. But still he couldnÕt be expected to know.
      ÒBut youÕll have a meringue, wonÕt you, Cyril?Ó said Aunt Josephine. ÒThese meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so fond of them. We were sure you are, too.Ó
      ÒI am, Aunt Josephine,Ó cried Cyril ardently. ÒDo you mind if I take half to begin with?Ó
     ÒNot at all, dear boy; but we mustnÕt let you off with that.Ó
      ÒIs your dear father still so fond of meringues?Ó asked Auntie Con gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers.
      ÒWell, I donÕt quite know, Auntie Con,Ó said Cyril breezily.
      At that they both looked up.
     ÒDonÕt know?Ó almost snapped Josephine. ÒDonÕt know a thing like that about your own father, Cyril?Ó
      ÒSurely,Ó said Auntie Con softly.
      Cyril tried to laugh it off. ÒOh, well,Ó he said, ÒitÕs such a long time since . . .Ó He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for him.
      ÒEven so,Ó said Josephine. 
      And Auntie Con looked.
      Cyril put down his teacup. ÒWait a bit,Ó he cried. ÒWait a bit, Aunt Josephine. What am I thinking of?Ó
      He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his,
knee.
       ÒOf course,Ó he said, Òit was meringues. How could I have forgotten? Yes, Aunt Josephine, youÕre perfectly right. FatherÕs most frightfully keen on meringues.
      They didnÕt only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh.
      ÒAnd now, Cyril, you must come and see father,Ó said Josephine. ÒHe knows you were coming to-day.Ó
      ÒRight,Ó said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock.
      ÒI say, Auntie Con, isnÕt your clock a bit slow? IÕve got to meet a man atÑat Paddington just after five. IÕm afraid I shanÕt be able to stay very long with grandfather.Ó
      ÒOh, he wonÕt expect you to stay very long!Ó said Aunt Josephine.
      Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldnÕt make up her mind if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost certain of that. At any rate, it had been.
      Cyril still lingered. ÒArenÕt you coming along, Auntie Con?Ó
      ÒOf course,Ó said Josephine, Òwe shall all go. Come on, Con.Ó
      IX
      They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into grandfatherÕs hot, sweetish room.
     ÒCome on,Ó said Grandfather Pinner.Ó DonÕt hang about. What is it? WhatÕve you been up to?Ó
      He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow silk handkerchief.
      ÒItÕs Cyril, father,Ó said Josephine shyly. And she took CyrilÕs hand and led him forward.
      ÒGood afternoon, grandfather,Ó said Cyril, trying to take his hand out of Aunt JosephineÕs. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other side of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her hands were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather.
      ÒWell,Ó said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump.Ó What have you got to tell me?Ó
      What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too.
      But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, ÒCyril says his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.Ó
      ÒEh?Ó said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple meringue shell over one ear.
      Josephine repeated, ÒCyril says his father is still very fond of meringues.Ó
      ÒCanÕt hear,Ó said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. ÒTell me what sheÕs trying to say,Ó he said.
      (My God !) ÒMust I?Ó said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine.
      ÒDo, dear,Ó she smiled. ÒIt will please him so much.Ó
      ÒCome on, out with it!Ó cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump again.
      And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, ÒFatherÕs still very fond of meringues.Ó
At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot.
ÒDonÕt shout,Ó he cried. ÒWhatÕs the matter with the boy? Meringues. What about Ôem?Ó
      ÒOh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?Ó groaned Cyril desperately.
      ÒItÕs quite all right dear boyÓ said Aunt Josephine, as though he and she were at the dentistÕs together. ÒHeÕll understand in a minute.Ó And she whispered to Cyril ÒHeÕs getting a bit deaf, you know.Ó Then she leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, ÒCyril only wanted to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very fond of meringues.Ó
      Colonel Pinner heard that time heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and down.
      ÒWhat an esstrodinary thing!Ó said old Grandfather Pinner. ÒWhat an esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!Ó
      And Cyril felt it was.
      ÒYes, I shall send Cyril the watch,Ó said Josephine.
      ÒThat would be very nice,Ó said Constantia. ÒI seem to remember last time he came there was some little trouble about the time.Ó
      X
      They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall.
      ÒFried or boiled?Ó asked the bold voice.
      Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the moment. They could hardly take it in.
      ÒFried or boiled what, Kate?Ó asked Josephine, trying to begin to concentrate.
      Kate gave a loud sniff ÒFish.Ó
      ÒWell, why didnÕt you say so immediately?Ó Josephine reproached her gently. ÒHow could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great many things in this world, you know, which are fried or boiled.Ó And after such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia, ÒWhich do you prefer, Con?Ó
      ÒI think it might be nice to have it fried,Ó said Constantia. ÒOn the other hand, of course boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both equally well. . . . Unless you. . .  In that case . . .Ó
      ÒI shall fry it,Ó said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their door open and slamming the door of her kitchen.
      Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until they rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a very lofty, imposing way, ÒDo you mind following me into the drawing-room, Constantia? IÕve something of great importance to discuss with you.Ó
      For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to talk over Kate.
      Josephine closed the door meaningly. ÒSit down, Constantia,Ó she said, still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for the first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she felt indeed quite a stranger.
      ÒNow the question is,Ó said Josephine, bending forward, Òwhether we shall keep her or not.Ó
      ÒThat is the question,Ó agreed Constantia. ÒAnd this time,Ó said Josephine firmly Òwe must come to a definite decision.Ó
      Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, ÒYes, Jug.Ó
      ÒYou see, Con, explained Josephine, Òeverything is so changed now.Ó Constantia looked up quickly. ÒI mean,Ó went on Josephine,Ó weÕre not dependent on Kate as we were.Ó And she blushed faintly. ÒThereÕs not father to cook for.Ó
      ÒThat is perfectly true,Ó agreed Constantia. ÒFather certainly doesnÕt want any cooking now whatever else . . .Ó
      Josephine broke in sharply. ÒYouÕre not sleepy are you Con?Ó
      ÒSleepy, Jug?Ó Constantia was wide-eyed.
      ÒWell, concentrate more,Ó said Josephine sharply, and she returned to the subject. ÒWhat it comes to is, if	we didÓÑand this she barely breathed, glancing at the doorÑ Ògive Kate noticeÓÑshe raised her voice againÑ Òwe could manage our own food.Ó
      ÒWhy not?,, cried Constantia. She couldnÕt help smiling. The idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands. ÒWhat should we live on, Jug?Ó
      ÒOh, eggs in various forms!Ó said Jug, lofty again. ÒAnd, besides, there are all the cooked foods.Ó
      Bu.t IÕve always heard,Ó said Constantia, Òthey are considered so very expensive.Ó
      ÒNot if one buys them in moderation,Ó said Josephine. But she tore herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after her.
      ÒWhat weÕve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust Kate or not.Ó
      Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips.
      ÒIsnÕt it curious, Jug,Ó said she, Òthat just on this one subject IÕve never been able to quite make up my mind?Ó
      XI
      She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her and deliberately made a face. MightnÕt she very well have been in pain? WasnÕt it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face at her? If Kate answered ÒNoÓÑand of course she would say ÒNoÓÑwhat a position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under her lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and then called Josephine to witness.
      ÒYou see, Jug?Ó
      ÒQuite, Con.Ó
      ÒNow we shall be able to tell.Ó
      But, oh, dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily.
      ÒYou come, Jug, and decide. I really canÕt. ItÕs too difficult.Ó
      But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, ÒNow youÕve put the doubt into my mind, Con, IÕm sure I canÕt tell myself.Ó
      ÒWell, we canÕt postpone it again,Ó said Josephine. ÒIf we postpone it this time . . .Ó
      XII
      But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together.
     ÒRun, Con,Ó said Josephine. ÒRun quickly. ÒThereÕs sixpence on the . . .Ó
      Then they remembered. It didnÕt matter. They would never have to stop the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound that loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would not thump.
It never will thump again,
It never will thump again,
played the barrel-organ.
      What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked different. She couldnÕt be going to cry.
      ÒJug, Jug,Ó said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. ÒDo you know what day it is? ItÕs Saturday. ItÕs a week to-day, a whole week.Ó
A week since father died,
A week since father died,
cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and cameÑand stayed, deepenedÑuntil it shone almost golden.
      ÒThe sunÕs out,Ó said Josephine, as though it really mattered.
      A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round bright notes, carelessly scattered.
      Constantia lifted her big cold hands as if to catch them, and then her hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day to be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. ÒI know something that you donÕt know,Ó said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what could it be? And yet she had always felt there was . . . something.
      The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. When it came to motherÕs photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except the ear-rings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As soon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. Josephine remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa to Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed their mother in Ceylon. . . . Would everything have been different if mother hadnÕt died? She didnÕt see why. Aunt Florence had lived with them until they had left school, and they had moved three times and had their yearly holiday and . . . and thereÕd been changes of servants, of course.
      Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. YeepÑeyeepÑyeep. But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying noise. YeepÑeyeepÑyeep. Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn?
      If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody for them to marry. There had been fatherÕs Anglo-Indian friends before he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or, even if theyÕd met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh, yes, there had been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But by the time Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faint to read; they couldnÕt even make out to which of them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking after father, and at the same time keeping out of fatherÕs way. But now? But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams. . . .
      Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The big pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the carved screen had leered at her and she hadnÕt minded. She remembered too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There had been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, getting things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them ack to get more things on approval, and arranging fatherÕs trays and trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel. It wasnÕt real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What did it all lead to? Now? Now?
      She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to Josephine, something frightfully important, aboutÑabout the future and what . . .
      ÒDon t you think perhaps . . .Ó she began.
      But Josephine interrupted her. Ò I was wondering if now . . .Ó she murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other.
      ÒGo on, Con,Ó said Josephine.
      ÒNo, no, Jug; after you,Ó said Constantia.	
      ÒNo, say what you were going to say. You began, said Josephine.
      ÒIÑIÕd rather hear what you were going to say first,Ó said Constantia.
      ÒDonÕt be absurd, Con.Ó
      ÒReally, Jug.Ó
      ÒConnie! Ò
      ÒOh, Jug! Ò
      A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, ÒI canÕt say what I was going to say, Jug, because IÕve forgotten what it was . . . that I was going to say.Ó
      Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the sun had been. Then she replied shortly, ÒIÕve forgotten too.Ó