every conceivable manner. It had a colossal bed,
surpassing even Christine's. A muslined maid was bending over some
drapery-shop boxes on the floor and removing garments therefrom.
Concepcion greeted her like a sister. "Don't let me disturb you,
Emily," she said, and to G.J., "Emily was poor Queenie's maid, and she
has come to me for a little while." G.J. amicably nodded. Tears came
suddenly into the maid's eyes. G.J. looked away and saw the bathroom,
which, also well muslined, was completely open to the bedroom.

"Whose _is_ this marvellous home?" he added when they had gone back to
the drawing-room.

"I think the original tenant is the wife of somebody who's interned."

"How simple the explanation is!" said G.J. "But I should never have
guessed it."

They started the tea in a strange silence. After a minute or two G.J.
said:

"I mustn't stay long."

"Neither must I." Concepcion smiled.

"Got to go out?"

"Yes."

There was another silence. Then Concepcion said:

"I'm going to Sarah Churcher's. And as I know she has her Pageant
Committee at five-thirty, I'd better not arrive later than five, had
I?"

"What is there between you and Lady Churcher?"

"Well, I'm going to offer to take Queen's place on the organising
Committee."

"Con!" he exclaimed impulsively, "you aren't?"

In an instant the atmosphere of the little airless, electric-lit,
gas-fumed apartment was charged with a fluid that no physical
chemistry could have traced. Concepcion said mildly:

"I am. I owe it to Queen's memory to take her place if I can. Of
course I'm no dancer, but in other things I expect I can make myself
useful."

G.J. replied with equal mildness:

"You aren't going to mix yourself up with that crowd again--after all
you've been through! The Pageant business isn't good enough for you,
Con, and you know it. You know it's odious."

She murmured:

"I feel it's my duty. I feel I owe it to Queen. It's a sort of
religion with me, I expect. Each person has his own religion, and I
doubt if one's more dogmatic than another."

He was grieved; he had a sense almost of outrage. He hated to picture
Concepcion subduing herself to the horrible environment of the Pageant
enterprise. But he said nothing more. The silence resumed. They might
have conversed, with care, about the inquest, or about the funeral,
which was to take place at the Castle, in Cheshire. Silence, however,
suited them best.

"Also I thought you needed repose,