Mrs. Finnegan found her next morning fresh from an attempt to rouse her mother into accepting a few swallows of milk, which had ended in pathetic and miserable failure.  She had thrown herself in an abandon of grief across the narrow kitchen table, and the coffee from an overturned cup was trickling in a warm, thick stream to the floor.  But the paroxysm did her good.  She rose to the kindly caresses of her neighbor like a flower beaten to earth but refreshed by a relentless torrent.  After this, custom and habit began to reassert themselves in spite of the crushing weight of circumstance.  She ’phoned to the office.  Mr. Flint had returned, they told her.  She explained her trouble to the cashier.  “I’ll try to be back the first of the week,” she finished, in a burst of illogical hope.

Later in the day Mrs. Robson’s two sisters arrived in answer to Claire’s summons.  Claire’s impulse to send for them had been purely instinctive—­an atrophied survival of clan-spirit that persisted beyond any real faith in its significance.  Perhaps she had a feeling that her mother wished it; certainly she had no illusions as to the manner in which the unwelcome news of Mrs. Robson’s illness would be received by these two self-centered females.

It was Mrs. Thomas Wynne who came in first, bundled mysteriously in her furs and holding a glass of wine jelly as a conventional symbol of the role of Lady Bountiful which she had for the moment assumed.  Claire could almost fancy how conspicuously she had contrived to carry this overworked badge of the humanities, and the languid drawl of her voice as she explained to her friends en route: 

“So sorry I can’t stop and chat.  But, as you see, I’m running along to a sick-room....  Oh no, nothing serious, I hope!  Just my sister....  Mrs. Ffinch-Brown?  Oh, dear no!  A younger sister.  I don’t think you know her.  She’s had a great deal of trouble and hasn’t been about much for a number of years.”

Mrs. Thomas Wynne had the trick of intrenching a stubborn family pride by throwing back her head and daring all comers to uncover any of the Carrol clan’s shortcomings.  But her selfishness had at least the virtue of a live-and-let-live attitude that contrasted with the futile aggressiveness of Mrs. Edward Ffinch-Brown.  She asked Claire no questions concerning her life or her prospects; she did not even pry very deeply into the chances that her sister had for an ultimate recovery.  Her philosophy seemed to be founded on the knowledge that uncovered cesspools were bound to be unpleasant, and, since she had no desire to assist in their purification, she was quite content to keep them properly screened.  She came and deposited her wine jelly and patted her sister’s hand and went away again without leaving even a ripple in her wake.  As she departed she gave further proof of her insolent insincerity by calling back at Claire: 

“Remember, Claire, if there is anything I can do, just let me know.”