(forgetting I had no business to judge it at all), said, perhaps to
defend herself from the imputation of complicity in such untidiness:

"She likes it this way; we can't move things. There are old bandboxes
she has had most of her life." Then she added, half taking pity on my
real thought, "Those things were THERE." And she pointed to a small,
low trunk which stood under a sofa where there was just room for it.
It appeared to be a queer, superannuated coffer, of painted wood, with
elaborate handles and shriveled straps and with the color (it had last
been endued with a coat of light green) much rubbed off. It evidently
had traveled with Juliana in the olden time--in the days of her
adventures, which it had shared. It would have made a strange figure
arriving at a modern hotel.

"WERE there--they aren't now?" I asked, startled by Miss Tita's
implication.

She was going to answer, but at that moment the doctor came in--the
doctor whom the little maid had been sent to fetch and whom she had at
last overtaken. My servant, going on his own errand, had met her with
her companion in tow, and in the sociable Venetian spirit, retracing his
steps with them, had also come up to the threshold of Miss Bordereau's
room, where I saw him peeping over the doctor's shoulder. I motioned him
away the more instantly that the sight of his prying face reminded me
that I myself had almost as little to do there--an admonition confirmed
by the sharp way the little doctor looked at me, appearing to take me
for a rival who had the field before him. He was a short, fat, brisk
gentleman who wore the tall hat of his profession and seemed to look
at everything but his patient. He looked particularly at me, as if it
struck him that I should be better for a dose, so that I bowed to him
and left him with the women, going down to smoke a cigar in the garden.
I was nervous; I could not go further; I could not leave the place.
I don't know exactly what I thought might happen, but it seemed to me
important to be there. I wandered about in the alleys--the warm night
had come on--smoking cigar after cigar and looking at the light in Miss
Bordereau's windows. They were open now, I could see; the situation
was different. Sometimes the light moved, but not quickly; it did not
suggest the hurry of a crisis. Was the old woman dying, or was she
already dead? Had the doctor said that there was nothing to be done at
her tremendous age but to let her quietly pass