ged a disordered heap of business letters, letters of condolence
and tradesmen's bills. She pushed aside the letters of condolence--Kitty
would answer those. She unlocked a drawer and took from it two open
envelopes scored with many postmarks and addressed to Harmouth, to
Cannes and to Harmouth again; these she scrutinized anxiously, as if
they disclosed some secret guarded by their contents. Then she read
the letters carefully all over again.

One was from her cousin Edith Jewdwine. Edith's sympathy covered two
sheets; it flowed from her pen, facile and fluent. Edith had had the
influenza, otherwise Edith would have come to Lucia at once. Could not
Lucia come to her instead? Edith could not bear to think of Lucia
alone there in her trouble, in that great big house. She was glad that
Kitty Palliser was with her. If only she had not been so unfortunate
as to catch influenza, and so on!

Lucia was sorry that Edith had influenza, but she was not sorry that
she had not come. She did not want Edith with her.

The other letter was from Horace. Horace had refined his expressions
of condolence into one faultless phrase. The rest of his letter
consisted of apologies and offers of service. These his close cramped
handwriting confined to the centre of the sheet, leaving a broad and
decent margin to suggest the inexpressible. He had heard of his
uncle's death indirectly; why had she not sent for him? If she had
wired to him at once he could have made arrangements to meet and take
her to Cannes, or he could have joined her there and brought her home.
At present he was overwhelmed with business; but he hoped to run down
to Harmouth at the end of the week, and travel up to town with her. He
understood that she was going to stay with Edith. Busy as he was, he
would come now, at any minute, if he could be of any immediate use.
She had only to wire if she wanted him.

She laid down that letter, pushed it aside, took it up again, and
read it a second time, as if to satisfy herself as to the writer's
meaning. She was not sure as to what Horace was or was not willing to
do, but there could be no doubt that he was deeply sorry for her. Why
had she not sent for him? Why indeed? Her first instinct had been to
send for him. She had only to let him know that she was in trouble,
and he would have come to her at any inconvenience to himself. And
that, of course, was why she had not sent. It would have been so
impossible for him to refuse.

A