She did not mean to be alone again until all was over.  It would be easier then.  She would have her own bodily pain to bear.  There would be confusion in the house—­doctors—­screaming women—­trembling men-servants—­her husband’s groans; for he was a coward, and would bear ill the little suffering which would help to save him.  Then they would tell her that Veronica was dead; and then—­then she could sleep for hours, nights, days, calmly, and at rest.

She bathed her tired face in cold water, and went to face them at luncheon.  With iron will, she ate and drank and talked, bearing herself bravely, as some great actresses have acted out their parts, while death waited for them at the stage door.

Had the weather been fine, she would have persuaded Veronica to drive with her, as on the previous day.  But it was dark and gloomy, and there would be rain before night.  She talked with the young girl, and began to make plans with her for going away.  Gregorio ate nothing, and looked on, uttering a monosyllable now and then, and laughing frantically, two or three times.  Nobody paid any attention to his laughter, now, for the household had grown used to it.  It might break out just when a servant was handing him something; the man would merely draw back a step, and wait until the count was quiet again, before offering the dish.

Over their coffee, Matilde read fragments of news from the day’s paper, and made comments on what was happening in the world.  Veronica thought her unnaturally talkative and excited, but put it down to the reaction after the poisoning of the previous night.  Matilde drank two cups of coffee instead of one.  Macomer smoked one cigarette after another, and sent for a sweet liqueur, of which he swallowed two glasses.  He did not look at Veronica, when he could avoid doing so.

At last Matilde rose and asked Veronica to allow her to bring her work and sit with her in her room, to which the young girl of course assented.

“By and by, we will have tea there,” said Matilde.  “Perhaps you will let your uncle come and have a cup with us—­he always drinks tea in the afternoon.”

“Certainly,” answered Veronica, quietly.  “Will you come at four o’clock, Uncle Gregorio?  Or is that too early?”

“Thank you.  I will come at four, my dear,” said Gregorio; and Matilde saw that his knees shook as he moved.

In Veronica’s room the two women sat through the early part of the afternoon, and still Matilde talked almost continuously.  That was the only outward sign that she was not in her usual state, and Veronica scarcely noticed it, for as the time wore on, she spoke less excitedly, and more often waited for an answer to what she said.  Of course, the conversation turned for some time upon what had occurred on the preceding evening.  Matilde scouted the idea that any one had attempted to poison her.  It was perfectly clear, she said, that, although the paper which the doctor had carried away to examine