’No, no, I am not mistaken!  She hates me, and I cannot bear her.  It is she who is making me ill.’

‘Hate you!  Why should she hate you?’

Emily did not reply.  Hubert watched her, noticing the pallor of her cheek, so entirely white and blue, hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in the shadow of the heavy hair.

‘I would give anything to see you friends again.’

’That is impossible!  I can never be friends with Julia as I once was.  She has——­ No, never can we be friends again.  But why do you always take her part against me?  That is what grieves me most.  If only you thought——­’

‘Emily dear, these are but idle fancies.  You are mistaken.’

The conversation fell.  The girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa.  Hubert sat by her on a low chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness.  The wind whined about the windows.  Then, speaking as if out of a dream, Emily said—­

‘Julia and I can never be friends again—­that is impossible.’

‘But what has she done?’ Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them.

‘What has she done?’ she said, looking at him curiously.  ’Well, one thing, she has got it reported that—­that I am in love with you, and that that is the reason of my illness.’

’I am sure she never said any such thing.  You are entirely mistaken.  Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.’

’A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything.  If she did not say it, can you tell me how it got about?’

‘I don’t believe any one ever said such a thing.’

’Oh yes, lots have said so—­things come back to me.  Julia always was jealous of me.  She cannot bear me to speak to you.  Have you not noticed how she follows us?  Do you think she would have left the room just now if she could have helped it?’

‘If you think this is so, had she not better leave?’

Emily did not answer at once.  Motionless she lay on the sofa, looking at the grey November day with vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of hallucination.  Suddenly she said, ’I do not want her to go away.  She would spread a report that I was jealous of her, and had asked you to send her away.  No; it would not be wise to send her away.  Besides,’ she said, fixing her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, ‘you would like her to remain.’

’I have said before, Emily, and I assure you I am speaking the truth, I want you to do what you like.  Say what you wish to be done, and it shall be done.’

’Is that really true?  I thought no one cared for me.  You must care for me a little to speak like that.’

‘Of course I care for you, Emily.’