All her life, it seemed to Corinna, she had been adjusting the difficulties and smoothing out the destinies of other persons.  All her life she had been arranging some happiness that was not hers.  To-night it was the happiness of Alice Rokeby, an acquaintance merely, a woman to whom she was profoundly indifferent, which lay in her hands.

“There is something that you can do,” she said lightly, obeying now that instinct for things as they ought to be, for surface pleasantness, which warred in her mind with her passion for truth.  “You can go to see her again.”

CHAPTER XX

CORINNA FACES LIFE

At nine o’clock the next morning Corinna came through the sunshine on the flagged walk and got into her car.  She was wearing her smartest dress of blue serge and her gayest hat of a deep old red.  Never had she looked more radiant; never had she carried her glorious head with a more triumphant air.

“Stop first at Mrs. Rokeby’s, William,” she said to the chauffeur, “and while I am there you may take this list to market.”

As the car rolled off, her eyes turned back lovingly to the serene brightness of the garden into which she had infused her passion for beauty and order and gracious living.  Rain had fallen in the night, and the glowing borders beyond the house shone like jewels in a casket.  Beneath the silvery blue of the sky each separate blade of grass glistened as if an enchanter’s wand had turned it to crystal.  The birds were busily searching for worms on the lawn; as the car passed a flash of scarlet darted across the road; and above a clear shining puddle clouds of yellow butterflies drifted like blown rose-leaves.

“How beautiful everything is,” thought Corinna.  “Why isn’t beauty enough?  Why does beauty without love turn to sadness?” Her head, which had drooped for a moment, was lifted gallantly.  “It ought to be enough just to be alive and not hungry on a morning like this.”

The house in which Mrs. Rokeby lived appeared to Corinna, as she entered it presently, to have given up hope as utterly as its mistress had done.  Though it was nearly ten o’clock, the front pavement had not been swept, the hall was still dark, and a surprised coloured maid, in a soiled apron, answered the doorbell.

“Poor thing,” thought, Corinna.  “I always heard that she was a good housekeeper.  It is queer how soon one’s state of mind passes into one’s surroundings.  I wonder if unhappiness could ever make me so indifferent to appearances?” To the maid, who knew her, she said, “I think Mrs. Rokeby will see me if she is awake.  It is only for a minute or two.”

Then she went into the drawing-room, where the shades were still down, and stood looking at the furniture and the curtains which were powdered with dust.  On the table, where the books and photographs were disarranged and a fancy box of chocolates lay with the top off, there was a crystal vase of flowers; but the flowers were withered, and the water smelt as if it had not been changed for a week.  Over the mantelpiece the long gilt-framed mirror reflected, through a gray film, the darkened room with its forlorn disarrangement.  The whole place had the vague depressing smell of closed rooms, or of dead flowers, the very odour of unhappiness.