She stretched
out her arms and legs; she yawned. What was she to do? Being good, as
she meant to be, and realizing her sin, as indeed she did, was hardly
occupation enough for all her energies.
Her immediate business was to answer a knock at the door. It was Rose
who entered. Her natural pallor was overlaid by the whiteness of
distress. 'Oh, Henrietta, I am glad you have come in.'
'I've been to a concert with Charles Batty,' Henrietta said quickly.
Rose showed no interest or surprise. 'Caroline is so much worse.'
Henrietta felt a pang at her forgetfulness. 'She is very ill. I was
afraid you might not be back in time. She has been asking for you.'
'I've been to Wellsborough, to a concert,' Henrietta insisted. 'Is she
as bad as that, Aunt Rose? But she'll get better, won't she?'
'Come with me and say good night to her. 'Rose took Henrietta's hand.
'How warm you are,' she said, in wonder that anything could be less
cold than Caroline soon would be.
Henrietta's fingers tightened round the living hand. 'She's not going
to die, is she?'
'Yes, she's dying,' Rose said quietly.
'Oh, but she can't,' Henrietta protested. 'She doesn't want to. She'll
hate it so.' It was impossible to imagine Aunt Caroline without her
parties, without her clothes, she would find it intolerably dull to be
dead. 'Perhaps she will get better.'
Rose said nothing. They crossed the landing and entered the dim room.
Caroline lay in the middle of the big bed: with her hair lank and
uncurled she was hardly recognizable and strangely ugly.
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