t in bad taste. She talked of England and the family, asked after
Grandmama, Neville and the rest.

"Neville is extremely ill," Mrs. Hilary said, quite untruly, but
that was, to do her justice, the way in which she always saw illness,
particularly Neville's. "And worried to death about Gerda, who seems to
have gone off her head since that accident in Cornwall. She is still
sticking to that insane, wicked notion about not getting married."

Nan had heard before of this.

"She'll give that up," she said, coolly, "when she finds she really can't
have Barry if she doesn't. Gerda gets what she wants."

"Oh, you all do that, the whole lot of you.... And a nice example
_you're_ setting the child."

"She'll give it up," Nan repeated, keeping the conversation on Gerda.
"Gerda hasn't the martyr touch. She won't perish for a principle. She
wants Barry and she'll have him, though she may hold out for a time.
Gerda doesn't lose things, in the end."

"She's a very silly child, and I suppose she's been mixing with dreadful
friends and picked up these ideas. At twenty there's some excuse for
ignorant foolishness." But none at thirty-three, Mrs. Hilary meant.

"Barry Briscoe," she added, "is being quite firm about it. Though he is
desperately in love with her, Neville tells me; desperately."

He's soon got over you, even if he did care for you once, and even if you
did send him away, her emphasis implied.

In Nan, casually flicking the ash off her cigarette, a queer impulse came
and went. For a moment she wanted to cry; to drop hardness and lightness
and pretence, and cry like a child and say "Mother, comfort me. Don't go
on hurting me. I love Barry. Be kind to me, oh be kind to me!"

If she had done it, Mrs. Hilary would have taken her in her arms and been
all mother, and the wound in their affection would have been temporarily
healed.

Nan said nonchalantly "I suppose he is. They're sure to be all
right.... Now what next, mother? It's getting dark for seeing things."

"I am tired to death," said Mrs. Hilary. "I shall go back to those
dreadful rooms and try to rest.... It has been an awful day.... I hate
Rome. In '99 it was so different. Father and I went about together; he
showed me everything. He _knew_ about it all. Besides...."

Besides, how could I enjoy sight-seeing after that scene this morning,
and with this awful calamity that has happened?

They went back. Mrs. Hilary was desperately missing her afternoon hour