could with propriety be done, partly as an outlet for her own energy (which since she left Paris had been accumulating), but more on Constance’s account.  She remembered all that Dr. Stirling had said, and the heartiness of her own agreement with his opinions.  It was a great day when, under tuition of an aged lady and in the privacy of their parlour, they both began to study the elements of Patience.  Neither had ever played at cards.  Constance was almost afraid to touch cards, as though in the very cardboard there had been something unrighteous and perilous.  But the respectability of a luxurious private hotel makes proper every act that passes within its walls.  And Constance plausibly argued that no harm could come from a game which you played by yourself.  She acquired with some aptitude several varieties of Patience.  She said:  “I think I could enjoy that, if I kept at it.  But it does make my head whirl.”

Nevertheless Constance was not happy in the hotel.  She worried the whole time about her empty house.  She anticipated difficulties and even disasters.  She wondered again and again whether she could trust the second Maggie in her house alone, whether it would not be better to return home earlier and participate personally in the cleaning.  She would have decided to do so had it not been that she hesitated to subject Sophia to the inconvenience of a house upside down.  The matter was on her mind, always.  Always she was restlessly anticipating the day when they would leave.  She had carelessly left her heart behind in St. Luke’s Square.  She had never stayed in a hotel before, and she did not like it.  Sciatica occasionally harassed her.  Yet when it came to the point she would not drink the waters.  She said she never had drunk them, and seemed to regard that as a reason why she never should.  Sophia had achieved a miracle in getting her to Buxton for nearly a month, but the ultimate grand effect lacked brilliance.

Then came the fatal letter, the desolating letter, which vindicated Constance’s dark apprehensions.  Rose Bennion calmly wrote to say that she had decided not to come to St. Luke’s Square.  She expressed regret for any inconvenience which might possibly be caused; she was polite.  But the monstrousness of it!  Constance felt that this actually and truly was the deepest depth of her calamities.  There she was, far from a dirty home, with no servant and no prospect of a servant!  She bore herself bravely, nobly; but she was stricken.  She wanted to return to the dirty home at once.

Sophia felt that the situation created by this letter would demand her highest powers of dealing with situations, and she determined to deal with it adequately.  Great measures were needed, for Constance’s health and happiness were at stake.  She alone could act.  She knew that she could not rely upon Cyril.  She still had an immense partiality for Cyril; she thought him the most charming young man she had ever known; she knew him to be industrious