Amy passed through the parlour to go to bed.  There was no other way of reaching the upper part of the house.

“Are you going to bed, Amy?”

“Yes’m.”

“Where is Fossette?”

“In the kitchen, m’m,” said Amy, defending herself.  “Mrs. Scales told me the dog might sleep in the kitchen with Spot, as they was such good friends.  I’ve opened the bottom drawer, and Fossit is lying in that.”

“Mrs. Scales has brought a dog with her!” exclaimed Maria.

“Yes’m!” said Amy, drily, before Constance could answer.  She implied everything in that affirmative.

“You are a family for dogs,” said Maria.  “What sort of dog is it?”

“Well,” said Constance.  “I don’t know exactly what they call it.  It’s a French dog, one of those French dogs.”  Amy was lingering at the stairfoot.  “Good night, Amy, thank you.”

Amy ascended, shutting the door.

“Oh!  I see!” Maria muttered.  “Well, I never!”

It was ten o’clock before sounds above indicated that the first interview between trustee and beneficiary was finished.

“I’ll be going on to open our side-door,” said Maria.  “Say good night to Mrs. Scales for me.”  She was not sure whether Charles Critchlow had really meant her to go home, or whether her mere absence from the drawing-room had contented him.  So she departed.  He came down the stairs with the most tiresome slowness, went through the parlour in silence, ignoring Constance, and also Sophia, who was at his heels, and vanished.

As Constance shut and bolted the front-door, the sisters looked at each other, Sophia faintly smiling.  It seemed to them that they understood each other better when they did not speak.  With a glance, they exchanged their ideas on the subject of Charles Critchlow and Maria, and learnt that their ideas were similar.  Constance said nothing as to the private interview.  Nor did Sophia.  At present, on this the first day, they could only achieve intimacy by intermittent flashes.

“What about bed?” asked Sophia.

“You must be tired,” said Constance.

Sophia got to the stairs, which received a little light from the corridor gas, before Constance, having tested the window-fastening, turned out the gas in the parlour.  They climbed the lower flight of stairs together.

“I must just see that your room is all right,” Constance said.

“Must you?” Sophia smiled.

They climbed the second flight, slowly.  Constance was out of breath.

“Oh, a fire!  How nice!” cried Sophia.  “But why did you go to all that trouble?  I told you not to.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Constance, raising the gas in the bedroom.  Her tone implied that bedroom fires were a quite ordinary incident of daily life in a place like Bursley.

“Well, my dear, I hope you’ll find everything comfortable,” said Constance.

“I’m sure I shall.  Good night, dear.”