“No,” Susan interposed.  “She was—­” then she gave it up in despair.  There was no use in explaining that Mrs. Paley was thinking of the wrong person.

“She ought not to have died,” Mrs. Paley continued.  “She looked so strong.  But people will drink the water.  I can never make out why.  It seems such a simple thing to tell them to put a bottle of Seltzer water in your bedroom.  That’s all the precaution I’ve ever taken, and I’ve been in every part of the world, I may say—­Italy a dozen times over. . . .  But young people always think they know better, and then they pay the penalty.  Poor thing—­I am very sorry for her.”  But the difficulty of peering into a dish of potatoes and helping herself engrossed her attention.

Arthur and Susan both secretly hoped that the subject was now disposed of, for there seemed to them something unpleasant in this discussion.  But Evelyn was not ready to let it drop.  Why would people never talk about the things that mattered?

“I don’t believe you care a bit!” she said, turning savagely upon Mr. Perrott, who had sat all this time in silence.

“I?  Oh, yes, I do,” he answered awkwardly, but with obvious sincerity.  Evelyn’s questions made him too feel uncomfortable.

“It seems so inexplicable,” Evelyn continued.  “Death, I mean.  Why should she be dead, and not you or I?  It was only a fortnight ago that she was here with the rest of us.  What d’you believe?” she demanded of mr.  Perrott.  “D’you believe that things go on, that she’s still somewhere—­or d’you think it’s simply a game—­we crumble up to nothing when we die?  I’m positive Rachel’s not dead.”

Mr. Perrott would have said almost anything that Evelyn wanted him to say, but to assert that he believed in the immortality of the soul was not in his power.  He sat silent, more deeply wrinkled than usual, crumbling his bread.

Lest Evelyn should next ask him what he believed, Arthur, after making a pause equivalent to a full stop, started a completely different topic.

“Supposing,” he said, “a man were to write and tell you that he wanted five pounds because he had known your grandfather, what would you do?  It was this way.  My grandfather—­”

“Invented a stove,” said Evelyn.  “I know all about that.  We had one in the conservatory to keep the plants warm.”

“Didn’t know I was so famous,” said Arthur.  “Well,” he continued, determined at all costs to spin his story out at length, “the old chap, being about the second best inventor of his day, and a capable lawyer too, died, as they always do, without making a will.  Now Fielding, his clerk, with how much justice I don’t know, always claimed that he meant to do something for him.  The poor old boy’s come down in the world through trying inventions on his own account, lives in Penge over a tobacconist’s shop.  I’ve been to see him there.  The question is—­must I stump up or not?  What does the abstract spirit of justice require, Perrott?  Remember, I didn’t benefit under my grandfather’s will, and I’ve no way of testing the truth of the story.”