But not a trace of the person who had been so much amongst them once.  His boots on the floor, his clothes on the door-pegs, his razors and brushes on the toilet-table were gone; so were a basin and ewer from the double wash-stand; so was the wide bed.  In place of the latter a small one—­originally Bob’s—­had been set up, at the head of which lay one large pillow fairly glistening with the shine of its fresh, although darned, linen sheath.  Carpet and curtains, essential to the departed housefather, had disappeared; the bare windows stood open to what fresh air there was; the floor, polished, and with one rug at the bedside, exhaled the sweet perfume of beeswax and turpentine.  It was all so pathetic to the visitor, so eloquent of loss and change, that she exclaimed, catching her sister in her arms: 

“Oh, you poor thing!  You poor, poor thing!”

Mrs Goldsworthy returned the embrace tenderly, but not the emotional impulse.

“You are so dear and kind,” she said, in a gentle, but quite steady voice.  “I am so glad you came—­so thankful to have you; but we won’t talk about that, if you don’t mind.  I think it is best not to dwell on troubles, if you can help it.  Tell me about yourself.  I suppose you have had lunch?  Well, then, we will have a nice cup of tea.  Take off that heavy cloak—­what lovely fur!  And your hat too—­what a smart affair!  You always have such taste.  No, I am not wearing crape; it is such rough, uncomfortable stuff, and so perishable; and the rule is not hard and fast nowadays, as it used to be.  It would be stupid to make it so in a climate like this.  Do you want a comb, dear?  How brown your hair keeps still!  Then let us go downstairs to the fire.”

The fire was in a little bare parlour, as austerely appointed as the bedroom.  A tea-table was drawn up to the hearth, the kettle placed on the coals.  There seemed no servant on the premises, but the neatness upstairs was repeated below; everything was speckless, polished, smelling of its own purity.  Well, it was a good thing poor Molly could interest herself in these matters, and her resolve not to brood over her troubles—­if it was genuine, and not only a heroic pose —­both noble and wise.  So Deb reflected; and such was the calmness of the emotional atmosphere, the cheering effect of tea and rest and sisterly companionship, the discursiveness of the talk, that she soon found herself telling Mary the secret that she was so sure the widow would hear with special sympathy and understanding.

“It is awfully selfish,” she began, “to bother you with my affairs at such a time as this, but you’ve got to know it some time.  The fact is—­ some folks would say there’s no fool like an old fool, and perhaps you’ll agree with them; but no, I don’t think you will—­not you, for you know...the fact is—­don’t laugh—­but I’m sure nobody can help it —­I have been and gone and got married, Molly.  There!”

And, after all, it seemed that she had not come to the right place for sympathy and understanding.  Mary did not laugh, but she stared in a wooden manner that was even more hurtful to the feelings of the new wife.