Later he said, “I’ll see the nurse and the other two maids and tell ’em they’re to take orders from you.”  He paused a moment.  “And Ethel—­if you’re to stay here, I want it to be as nearly like it was as I can.” he gave a wincing frown.  “I mean on the money side,” he said.  “I’ll give you a check the first of each month.  You’ll need things of your own, of course—­as she did.  I want it just like that.”

“Thank you, dear.”  She saw a muscle in his cheek suddenly begin to twitch, and she thought, “It won’t be easy.”

When Joe left for his office, she went with him to the door.

She turned at once to the housekeeping.  Her talks with the waitress and the cook left her both a little relieved and a good deal disappointed.  For there seemed to be nothing for her to do; she was made to feel that things would run best with the least possible interference.  She learned with surprise that hitherto the cook had done all the ordering.

“All I need to know is how many is coming,” said the cook.

“There won’t be any one for awhile.”

“Then it’s very simple, ma’am.”  On the woman’s face was a look which said, “Just you keep out of my kitchen.”

It was the same in her talk with the nurse.  That tall gaunt creature briefly explained that, “Mrs. Lanier bought clothes Spring and Fall, and then she left the child to me.  I go out every Thursday and every other Sunday—­afternoon and evening.  Lucy the waitress takes my place.  The rest of the time I’ve managed alone.”  She looked around in a jealous way and asked, “I suppose you’ll want things as before?”

“Yes, for the present,” Ethel said.  She felt the woman glance at her sharply as she turned toward the door.

She went into her sister’s room, sat down and had a little cry.  But the sunlight was streaming in through the pretty chintz curtains there; and its softness and its ease, its luxury and blithe content, stole into her spirit and quieted her.  She sat looking about.

“What is there for me to do?”

It came over her that the cook and the nurse could tell her just about what they pleased.  She had no means of checking them up, for Amy had never talked of such things.  It had all been pretty clothes and shops, in those brief exciting weeks, and shrewd counsel about men and what it was they wanted of women.  How appallingly shallow and meaningless those conversations now appeared.  They gave no comfort or support.  The remembrance of the terror in Amy’s eyes at the thought of death rose vividly in Ethel’s mind, and she got up and walked the floor.

“We’ll fight this down—­we’ll fight this down,” she kept repeating determinedly.  And as soon as she was quiet again:  “What is there for me to do?  Why Joe, of course—­and heaven knows he’ll be enough.  He’s the hardest kind, he doesn’t cry, he keeps it all inside of him.”  She drew a deep breath.  “How about this room?” She frowned and looked around her.  “No, I don’t think he wants anything changed.  For the present at least, I’ll leave it alone.  But he ought not to be reminded of her by every little thing he sees.”