Kitty began it. “Do you remember,” said she, “the things we used to say about him?”

“Oh don’t, Kitty; I do.”

“You needn’t mind; it was only I who said them.”

“Yes, you said them; but I thought them.”

Then she told Kitty what had brought him there and the story that he had told her.  “And, Kitty, all the time I knew he lied.”

“Probably.  You must take it, Lucy, all the same.”

“How can I take it, when I know it comes out of his own poor little waistcoat pocket?”

“You would, if you cared enough about him.”

“No.  It’s just because I care that I can’t.”

“You do care, then?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“But not in the same way as he cares, Lucy.”

Kitty’s words sounded like a statement rather than a question, so they passed unanswered.

“It’s all right, Kitty.  It’s all over, at last.  He doesn’t care a bit now, not a bit.”

“Oh doesn’t he!  How can you be so idiotic?  All over?  I assure you it’s only just begun.”

Lucia turned her head away.

“Lucy—­what are you going to do with him?”

Lucia smiled sadly.  That was the question she had asked Horace ten years ago, making him responsible.  And now the responsibility had been laid on her.  “Kitty—­did you notice how thin he is?  He looks as if he’d just come through some awful illness.  But I can’t ask him about it.”

“Rather not.  You don’t know whether he’s had it, or whether he’s going to have it.”

“I wonder if you’d mind asking him to stay a week or two?  It might help him to get strong.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t.  I think it’s just what he wants.  Oh, Kitty, could you—­would you, if I wanted it, too?”

“You needn’t ask.  But what earthly good can it do?”

“If he got strong here it would be so nice to think we sent him away well.  And if he’s going to be ill I could look after him—­”

Her use of “we” and “I” did not pass unnoticed by the observant Kitty.

“And then?”

Lucia’s face, which had been overcast with care, was now radiant.  “Then I should have done something for him besides making him miserable.  Will you ask him, Kitty?”

“You’re a fool, Lucy, and I’m another.  But I’ll ask him.  To-morrow, though; not to-day.”

She waited to see what to-morrow would bring forth, for she was certain it would bring forth something.

It brought forth glorious weather after the east wind, a warm languid day, half spring, half summer.  Lucia and Kitty seemed bent on putting all idea of business out of their guest’s head.  In the morning they drove about the country.  In the afternoon they all sat out in the south square under the windows of the morning-room, while Lucia talked to him about his tragedies.  Kitty still held her invitation in reserve.

At last she left them to themselves.  It was Lucia who first returned to the subject of dispute.  She had some sewing in her lap which gave her the advantage of being able to talk in a calm, detached manner and without looking up.  He sat near her, watching with delight the quiet movements of her hands.