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
