sympathy.

"My father died last week," Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was
not quite steady. "I am quite alone--here and in the world."

She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon
Unorna's, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation,
hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it.

"I am very lonely, too," said Unorna. "May I sit with you for a while?"

She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary. In
another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within. Her
heart beat violently until the answer came. She had been successful.

"Will you, indeed?" Beatrice exclaimed. "I am poor company, but I shall
be very glad if you will come in."

She opened her door, and Unorna entered. The apartment was almost
exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already
had the air of being inhabited. There were books upon the table, and a
square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photograph
of a stern, dark man in middle age--Beatrice's father, as Unorna at once
understood. Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a
large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a
quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours.

"I only came this morning," Beatrice said, as though to apologise for
the disorder.

Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the
bright lamp with her hand. She could not help looking at Beatrice, but
she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor
her conversation too eager. Beatrice was proud and strong, and could
doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose.

"And do you expect to be here long?" Unorna asked, as Beatrice
established herself at the other end of the sofa.

"I cannot tell," was the answer. "I may be here but a few days, or I may
have to stay a month.

"I lived here for years," said Unorna thoughtfully. "I suppose it would
be impossible now--I should die of apathy and inanition." She laughed
in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice's mourning. "But I was
young then," she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so
that the full light of the lamp fell upon her.

She chose to show that she, too, was beautiful, and she knew that
Beatrice had as yet hardly seen her face as they passed through the
gloomy corridors. It was an instinct of vanity, and yet, for her
purpose,