There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in its truth to nature.

“Left by your parents?” Beatrice asked.  The question seemed almost inevitable.

“I had none.  I never knew a father or a mother.”  Unorna’s voice grew sad with each syllable.

They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were situated, and were approaching Beatrice’s door.  They walked more and more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had spoken.  Unorna sighed.  The passing breath traveling on the air of the lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy.

“My father died last week,” Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was not quite steady.  “I am quite alone—­here and in the world.”

She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon Unorna’s, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it.

“I am very lonely, too,” said Unorna.  “May I sit with you for a while?”

She had but just time to make the bold stroke that was necessary.  In another moment she knew that Beatrice would have disappeared within.  Her heart beat violently until the answer came.  She had been successful.

“Will you, indeed?” Beatrice exclaimed.  “I am poor company, but I shall be very glad if you will come in.”

She opened her door, and Unorna entered.  The apartment was almost exactly like her own in size and shape and furniture, but it already had the air of being inhabited.  There were books upon the table, and a square jewel-case, and an old silver frame containing a large photograph of a stern, dark man in middle age—­Beatrice’s father, as Unorna at once understood.  Cloaks and furs lay in some confusion upon the chairs, a large box stood with the lid raised, against the wall, displaying a quantity of lace, among which lay silks and ribbons of soft colours.

“I only came this morning,” Beatrice said, as though to apologise for the disorder.

Unorna sank down in a corner of the sofa, shading her eyes from the bright lamp with her hand.  She could not help looking at Beatrice, but she felt that she must not let her scrutiny be too apparent, nor her conversation too eager.  Beatrice was proud and strong, and could doubtless be very cold and forbidding when she chose.

“And do you expect to be here long?” Unorna asked, as Beatrice established herself at the other end of the sofa.

“I cannot tell,” was the answer.  “I may be here but a few days, or I may have to stay a month.

“I lived here for years,” said Unorna thoughtfully.  “I suppose it would be impossible now—­I should die of apathy and inanition.”  She laughed in a subdued way, as though respecting Beatrice’s mourning.  “But I was young then,” she added, suddenly withdrawing her hand from her eyes, so that the full light of the lamp fell upon her.