“Yes, I suppose it will,” Sophia agreed.

“But of course it’s not the same to you,” said Constance, dashed.  She indicated the glories of Bursley Park, as the train slackened for Bursley, with modesty.  Sophia gazed, and vaguely recognized the slopes where she had taken her first walk with Gerald Scales.

Nobody accosted them at Bursley Station, and they drove to the Square in a cab.  Amy was at the window; she held up Spot, who was in a plenary state of cleanliness, rivalling the purity of Amy’s apron.

“Good afternoon, m’m,” said Amy, officiously, to Sophia, as Sophia came up the steps.

“Good afternoon, Amy,” Sophia replied.  She flattered Amy in thus showing that she was acquainted with her name; but if ever a servant was put into her place by mere tone, Amy was put into her place on that occasion.  Constance trembled at Sophia’s frigid and arrogant politeness.  Certainly Sophia was not used to being addressed first by servants.  But Amy was not quite the ordinary servant.  She was much older than the ordinary servant, and she had acquired a partial moral dominion over Constance, though Constance would have warmly denied it.  Hence Constance’s apprehension.  However, nothing happened.  Amy apparently did not feel the snub.

“Take Spot and put him in Mr. Cyril’s bedroom,” Constance murmured to her, as if implying:  “Have I not already told you to do that?” The fact was, she was afraid for Spot’s life.

“Now, Fossette!” She welcomed the incoming poodle kindly; the poodle began at once to sniff.

The fat, red cabman was handling the trunks on the pavement, and Amy was upstairs.  For a moment the sisters were alone together in the parlour.

“So here I am!” exclaimed the tall, majestic woman of fifty.  And her lips twitched again as she looked round the room—­so small to her.

“Yes, here you are!” Constance agreed.  She bit her lip, and, as a measure of prudence to avoid breaking down, she bustled out to the cabman.  A passing instant of emotion, like a fleck of foam on a wide and calm sea!

The cabman blundered up and downstairs with trunks, and saluted Sophia’s haughty generosity, and then there was quietness.  Amy was already brewing the tea in the cave.  The prepared tea-table in front of the fire made a glittering array.

“Now, what about Fossette?” Constance voiced anxieties that had been growing on her.

“Fossette will be quite right with me,” said Sophia, firmly.

They ascended to the guest’s room, which drew Sophia’s admiration for its prettiness.  She hurried to the window and looked out into the Square.

“Would you like a fire?” Constance asked, in a rather perfunctory manner.  For a bedroom fire, in seasons of normal health, was still regarded as absurd in the Square.

“Oh, no!” said Sophia; but with a slight failure to rebut the suggestion as utterly ridiculous.