Constance must have known that Sophia would not leave her, and that the habitation of the Square was a continual irk to Sophia.  Constance had never been able to advance a single argument for remaining in the Square.  And yet she would not budge.  It was so inconsistent with the rest of Constance’s behaviour.  See Sophia sitting primly there by the table, a woman approaching sixty, with immense experience written on the fine hardness of her worn and distinguished face!  Though her hair is not yet all grey, nor her figure bowed, you would imagine that she would, in her passage through the world, have learnt better than to expect a character to be consistent.  But no!  She was ever disappointed and hurt by Constance’s inconsistency!  And see Constance, stout and bowed, looking more than her age with hair nearly white and slightly trembling hands!  See that face whose mark is meekness and the spirit of conciliation, the desire for peace—­you would not think that that placid soul could, while submitting to it, inly rage against the imposed weight of Sophia’s individuality.  “Because I wouldn’t turn out of my house to please her,” Constance would say to herself, “she fancies she is entitled to do just as she likes.”  Not often did she secretly rebel thus, but it occurred sometimes.  They never quarrelled.  They would have regarded separation as a disaster.  Considering the difference of their lives, they agreed marvellously in their judgment of things.  But that buried question of domicile prevented a complete unity between, them.  And its subtle effect was to influence both of them to make the worst, instead of the best, of the trifling mishaps that disturbed their tranquillity.  When annoyed, Sophia would meditate upon the mere fact that they lived in the Square for no reason whatever, until it grew incredibly shocking to her.  After all it was scarcely conceivable that they should be living in the very middle of a dirty, ugly, industrial town simply because Constance mulishly declined to move.  Another thing that curiously exasperated both of them upon occasion was that, owing to a recurrence of her old complaint of dizziness after meals, Sophia had been strictly forbidden to drink tea, which she loved.  Sophia chafed under the deprivation, and Constance’s pleasure was impaired because she had to drink it alone.

While the brazen and pretty servant, mysteriously smiling to herself, dropped food and utensils on to the table, Constance and Sophia attempted to converse with negligent ease upon indifferent topics, as though nothing had occurred that day to mar the beauty of ideal relations between employers and employed.  The pretence was ludicrous.  The young wench saw through it instantly, and her mysterious smile developed almost into a laugh.

“Please shut the door after you, Maud,” said Sophia, as the girl picked up her empty tray.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Maud, politely.

She went out and left the door open.