As if washed by the air her voice sounded more spiritual and softer than usual.  Voices at a little distance answered her, “Yes.”

Through the darkness she was looking at them both, and trying to distinguish him.  What was there for her to say?  Rachel had passed beyond her guardianship.  A voice might reach her ears, but never again would it carry as far as it had carried twenty-four hours ago.  Nevertheless, speech seemed to be due from her before she went to bed.  She wished to speak, but she felt strangely old and depressed.

“D’you realise what you’re doing?” she demanded.  “She’s young, you’re both young; and marriage—­” Here she ceased.  They begged her, however, to continue, with such earnestness in their voices, as if they only craved advice, that she was led to add: 

“Marriage! well, it’s not easy.”

“That’s what we want to know,” they answered, and she guessed that now they were looking at each other.

“It depends on both of you,” she stated.  Her face was turned towards Terence, and although he could hardly see her, he believed that her words really covered a genuine desire to know more about him.  He raised himself from his semi-recumbent position and proceeded to tell her what she wanted to know.  He spoke as lightly as he could in order to take away her depression.

“I’m twenty-seven, and I’ve about seven hundred a year,” he began.  “My temper is good on the whole, and health excellent, though Hirst detects a gouty tendency.  Well, then, I think I’m very intelligent.”  He paused as if for confirmation.

Helen agreed.

“Though, unfortunately, rather lazy.  I intend to allow Rachel to be a fool if she wants to, and—­Do you find me on the whole satisfactory in other respects?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, I like what I know of you,” Helen replied.

“But then—­one knows so little.”

“We shall live in London,” he continued, “and—­” With one voice they suddenly enquired whether she did not think them the happiest people that she had ever known.

“Hush,” she checked them, “Mrs. Flushing, remember.  She’s behind us.”

Then they fell silent, and Terence and Rachel felt instinctively that their happiness had made her sad, and, while they were anxious to go on talking about themselves, they did not like to.

“We’ve talked too much about ourselves,” Terence said.  “Tell us—­”

“Yes, tell us—­” Rachel echoed.  They were both in the mood to believe that every one was capable of saying something very profound.

“What can I tell you?” Helen reflected, speaking more to herself in a rambling style than as a prophetess delivering a message.  She forced herself to speak.