But she would not consider the project of going to Bursley.  Never, never would she go to Bursley.  If Constance chose to come to Paris and see her, she would be delighted, but she herself would not budge.  The mere notion of any change in her existence intimidated her.  And as for returning to Bursley itself ... no, no!

Nevertheless, at the Pension Frensham, the future could not be as the past.  Sophia’s health forbade that.  She knew that the doctor was right.  Every time that she made an effort, she knew intimately and speedily that the doctor was right.  Only her will-power was unimpaired; the machinery by which will-power is converted into action was mysteriously damaged.  She was aware of the fact.  But she could not face it yet.  Time would have to elapse before she could bring herself to face that fact.  She was getting an old woman.  She could no longer draw on reserves.  Yet she persisted to every one that she was quite recovered, and was abstaining from her customary work simply from an excess of prudence.  Certainly her face had recovered.  And the Pension, being a machine all of whose parts were in order, continued to run, apparently, with its usual smoothness.  It is true that the excellent chef began to peculate, but as his cuisine did not suffer, the result was not noticeable for a long period.  The whole staff and many of the guests knew that Sophia had been indisposed; and they knew no more.

When by hazard Sophia observed a fault in the daily conduct of the house, her first impulse was to go to the root of it and cure it, her second was to leave it alone, or to palliate it by some superficial remedy.  Unperceived, and yet vaguely suspected by various people, the decline of the Pension Frensham had set in.  The tide, having risen to its highest, was receding, but so little that no one could be sure that it had turned.  Every now and then it rushed up again and washed the furthest stone.

Sophia and Constance exchanged several letters.  Sophia said repeatedly that she could not leave Paris.  At length she roundly asked Constance to come and pay her a visit.  She made the suggestion with fear—­for the prospect of actually seeing her beloved Constance alarmed her—­but she could do no less than make it.  And in a few days she had a reply to say that Constance would have come, under Cyril’s charge, but that her sciatica was suddenly much worse, and she was obliged to lie down every day after dinner to rest her legs.  Travelling was impossible for her.  The fates were combining against Sophia’s decision.

And now Sophia began to ask herself about her duty to Constance.  The truth was that she was groping round to find an excuse for reversing her decision.  She was afraid to reverse it, yet tempted.  She had the desire to do something which she objected to doing.  It was like the desire to throw one’s self over a high balcony.  It drew her, drew her, and she drew back against it.  The Pension was now tedious to her.  It bored her even to pretend to be the supervising head of the Pension.  Throughout the house discipline had loosened.