The two women left her.  Fanny, too, soon went out on an errand.  And no other woman came to her that day.  How different from the Ohio town.  Only once a girl came from the dressmaker’s.

But just after Fanny had gone out, Joe’s partner came into the living-room.  In the last few hours several times she had heard his voice as he talked with Joe.  Deep, heavy and gruff, it had yet revealed a tenderness that had given to Ethel a sudden thrill—­which she had forgotten the next moment, for her thoughts kept spinning so.  But now as he looked down at her she saw in his gaunt lean face a reflection of that tenderness; and there was a pity in his voice which set her lip to quivering.

“The sooner we have this over,” he said, “the better it will be for Joe.”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow!”

“Yes.”

“At four!”

“All right.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”  There was a pause.

“Is there any special cemetery?  You have any preference?” he asked.

“I don’t know any in New York.”  And again there was a silence.

“You haven’t been here long,” he said.

“You’ll be going back now to your home, I suppose.”

“I haven’t any.”

“Oh,” he said.  She glanced up and saw a gleam of uneasiness in his steady tired eyes.  She shrank a little.

“You have no relatives living?” he asked.

“None that I care about,” she replied.  She swallowed sharply.  “They’re scattered—­gone West.  We lost track of them.”

“Oh. . . .  Then do you intend to stay here?”

“For awhile—­if Joe wants me.”

“I’ll take care of Joe.”  Though the voice was low, it had an anxious jealous note which made her shiver slightly.

“There’s the child,” she reminded him sharply.  “Why not take it away?” he asked.  “Joe never cared for it, did he?  Do you think it has been happy here?”

And at that she could have struck him.  At her glare he turned away.

“Forgive me.  Of course I—­should not have said that.”  A pause.  “Nor talked of your plans.  I’m not myself.  Sorry for Joe.  Forgive me.”  He turned away from her, frowning.  “I’ll see to everything,” he said, and she heard him leave the apartment.

And all the rest of the day and the night and through the morning which followed, no one else came but professional men, and Mrs. Carr.  She came and went; and her voice grew familiar—­hard, intrusive, naked.  And the thought kept rising in Ethel’s mind, like a flash of revelation in all the storm and blackness: 

“This kind of a woman was Amy’s best friend!”

The funeral was soon over, and of its ugly details only a few remained in her mind.  She had a glimpse of Amy’s face down in the handsome coffin, and at the sight she turned away with a swift pang of self-reproach.  “I shouldn’t have let Fanny do that!” Fanny had dressed her sister.