prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
2. THE GARDEN PARTY.

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more
perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm,
the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light
gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since
dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark
flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for
the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are
the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers
that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds,
had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though
they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave
everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me
as an honoured guest."

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed
her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green
turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly,
always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."

Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's so
delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she
loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much
better than anybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden
path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big
tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now
that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put
it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to
look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded
so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little
girl, "Oh--er--have you come--is it about the marquee?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled
fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and
smiled down at her. "That's about it."

His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes
he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others,
they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed
to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She
mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee.

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the
bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little
fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a
thing like a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want
to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you
follow me."

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite
respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she
did quite follow him.

"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to
be in one corner."

"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen.
He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the
tennis-court. What was he thinking?

"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so
much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there.
That'll do fine."

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they
were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters
of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert
island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a
kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making
for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a
sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed
up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the
karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that--caring for
the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such
a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why
couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she
danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much
better with men like these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on
the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to
hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't
feel them. Not a bit, not an atom... And now there came the chock-chock
of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right
there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to prove
how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt,
and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her
bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like
a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the
house.

"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps,
across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and
Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.

"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at
my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing."

"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at
Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties,
don't you?" gasped Laura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister
too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to
lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch
meal--just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's
left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly
should. One moment--hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat
back. "What, mother? Can't hear."

Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that
sweet hat she had on last Sunday."

"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good.
One o'clock. Bye-bye."

Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep
breath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment
after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the
doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft,
quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the
kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there
came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved
on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air
always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops
of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of
sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too.
Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite
warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it.

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's
print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered,
careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.

"It's the florist, Miss Laura."

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray
full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies--canna
lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive
on bright crimson stems.

"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She
crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt
they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.

"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many.
Sadie, go and find mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they
lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and
I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I
shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie
had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put
her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her
mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't
do that. Here's the man."

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.

"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch,
please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, I do, mother."

In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded
in moving the piano.

"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything
out of the room except the chairs, don't you think?"

"Quite."

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper
to take these marks off the carpet and--one moment, Hans--" Jose loved
giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always
made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and
Miss Laura to come here at once.

"Very good, Miss Jose."

She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just
in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is
Weary.'"

Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that
Jose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and
enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.

     "This Life is Wee-ary,
      A Tear--a Sigh.
      A Love that Chan-ges,
        This Life is Wee-ary,
      A Tear--a Sigh.
      A Love that Chan-ges,
      And then... Good-bye!"

But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more
desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully
unsympathetic smile.

"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.

     "This Life is Wee-ary,
      Hope comes to Die.
      A Dream--a Wa-kening."

But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"

"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the
sandwiches?"

"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily.
And the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me
see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in
ten minutes."

Sadie went.

"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the
smoking-room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope.
You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and
take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this
instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father
when he comes home to-night? And--and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go
into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how
it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I
remember vividly--cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"

"Yes."

"Egg and--" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks
like mice. It can't be mice, can it?"

"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.

"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and
olive."

They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She
found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.

"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous
voice. "How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jose."

"Well, cook, I congratulate you."

Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly.

"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had
seen the man pass the window.

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their
cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook.

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and
Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the
same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive.
Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura.

"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried
back. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say."

"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma
won't know."

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea
made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were
licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes
from whipped cream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I
want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such
awfully nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand
clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was
screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be
enjoying himself; it was his story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his
very nose.

"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of
course, she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of
Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke
Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head.
Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They
were taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook,
"He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged
her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There
she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however
are we going to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you
mean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura,
don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody
expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside
the front gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to
themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house.
A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were
the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that
neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a
chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage
stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their
chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so
unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans'
chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and
a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages.
Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to
set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might
catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls
sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came
out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see
everything. So through they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,"
said Laura.

"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to
stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a
very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just
as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she
used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a
drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly.

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She
said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going
straight up to tell mother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose.

"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass
door-knob.

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a
colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was
trying on a new hat.

"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and
took off the big hat and held it on her knees.

"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told
the dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she
pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother;
they're nearly neighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder
to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've
heard of it. If some one had died there normally--and I can't understand
how they keep alive in those poky little holes--we should still be
having our party, shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat
down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.

"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat.
Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her
mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for
me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And
she held up her hand-mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she
turned aside.

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.

"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that
don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil
everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room
into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw
was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with
gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she
could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she
hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was
extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor
woman and those little children, and the body being carried into
the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the
newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided.
And somehow that seemed quite the best plan...

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready
for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a
corner of the tennis-court.

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for
words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor
in the middle on a leaf."

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him
Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie
agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she
followed him into the hall.

"Laurie!"

"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw
Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her.
"My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely
topping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him
after all.

Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the
hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked
there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving
on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the
Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to--where? Ah,
what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press
hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

"Darling Laura, how well you look!"

"What a becoming hat, child!"

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking."

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have
an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to
her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something
to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its
petals closed.

"Never a more delightful garden-party... " "The greatest success... "
"Quite the most... "

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in
the porch till it was all over.

"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the
others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes,
it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why
will you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat
down in the deserted marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."

"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took
another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened
to-day?" he said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly
ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off."

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it.

"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap
was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and
half a dozen kiddies, so they say."

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup.
Really, it was very tactless of father...

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches,
cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her
brilliant ideas.

"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor
creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the
greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to
have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready
prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the
stairs cupboard."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take
scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you
were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now--"

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her
mother.

"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No,
wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by
arum lilies."

"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.

So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"--her
mother followed her out of the marquee--"don't on any account--"

"What mother?"

No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run
along."

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog
ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the
hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after
the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man
lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped
a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons,
laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no
room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and
all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party."

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in
shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the
children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little
cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow,
crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on.
She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the
big hat with the velvet streamer--if only it was another hat! Were the
people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she
knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people
stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a
chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as
Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as
though they had known she was coming here.

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder,
she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the
woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she
walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes,
or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll
just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to
be emptied.

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered,
"Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in the passage.

"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this
basket. Mother sent--"

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her.
"Step this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura
followed her.

She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky
lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire.

"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young
lady." She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss.
You'll excuse 'er, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I--I
only want to leave--"

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed
up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed
as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean?
Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it
all about? And the poor face puckered up again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."

And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face,
swollen too, tried an oily smile.

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage.
The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the
dead man was lying.

"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she
brushed past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"--and now
her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet--"'e
looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.

There lay a young man, fast asleep--sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that
he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was
dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his
eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given
up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks
matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful,
beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing,
this marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy... All is well, said that
sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room
without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.

"Forgive my hat," she said.

And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of
the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of
the lane she met Laurie.

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Yes."

"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"

"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him.

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.

Laura shook her head. She was.

Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm,
loving voice. "Was it awful?"

"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie--" She
stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't
life--" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite
understood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: "They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden party if they had ordered it " . Warm, windless, without a cloud in the sky, the Sheridan's garden party was expected to be a great success. Still at breakfast, Laura, Meg, Jose Sheridan and their mother sat discussing arrangements for the party. Mrs. Sheridan declared she was not going to make a single decision, an unfortunate announcement as the workmen had just arrived at the front gate to put up the marquee. Meg could not go outside to speak to them because her hair was wet. Jose was not dressed. Laura was nominated and she practically flew out of the house in anticipation. She loved to arrange things and felt she was better at it than everyone else. With a piece of buttered toast in her hand, Laura met the workmen in the garden. Suddenly shy and aware of how young she must look to the burly men she affected her mother's high voice and asked if they would set up the marquee on the tennis court where the band would be playing. She immediately regretted her words when one of the workmen sarcastically asked after the band. Embarrassed, Laura said it was a small band but another of the workmen smiled and his easy and friendly nature put her at ease. She took a bite of her toast. The workmen decided the marquee would look best under the karakas trees and without any invitation from Laura they set out. Only one of the workmen remained behind, a tall man, he bend down and pinched a sprig of lavender from the garden and smelled it. Laura doubted any of the men she knew, the ones she danced with or had over for Sunday dinner, would have stopped what they were doing to enjoy the scent of lavender. She thought she would get on much better with the workmen than she would men of her own social class. Someone from the house yelled to Laura that she had a telephone call. Laura ran up the path onto the veranda and into the house. There she met her father and brother, Laurie, getting ready to go to the office. She gave her brother a quick hug and then answered her call. It was her friend, Kitty Maitland. Only Laura's end of the conversation was heard and she asked Kitty to come to lunch to eat leftovers of whatever Cook had made for the garden party. Mrs. Sheridan yelled down to Laura and told her to tell Kitty to wear the same hat she wore last Sunday. Laura repeated her mother's words and said goodbye to Kitty. Returning the phone to its receiver, Laura sighed loudly and contently and listened to the beautiful silence of the house. Then all at once the house came to life, noise sounded from another room, the piano was being moved, the doorbell rang and Sadie, the maid, answered it. The florist had arrived with trays of pink lilies. At first Laura assumed there had been a mistake in the sheer number of flowers that the florist had brought but Mrs. Sheridan assured her the order was correct. She had passed by the florist the other day and ordered extra lilies for the party as a treat for herself. Meanwhile in the drawing room, Meg, Jose, and Han, their servant, had finally succeeded in moving the piano. Jose asked Hans to fetch her mother and Laura while she positioned herself at the piano. Jose hoped someone would ask her to sing at the party and wanted to practice. She sang a melancholy tune about life being weary and love that changes. When she was finished she declared herself in good voice and no one contradicted her. Just then Sadie came in and asked Mrs. Sheridan for the little flags she had made for the sandwich trays to identify what they were made of so that Cook could start preparing for the party. After some confusion as to where Mrs. Sheridan had left the flags, Laura brought them to the kitchen and she and Jose marveled over the fifteen different types of sandwiches Cook had prepared. A deliveryman came into the kitchen while the girls were still there and brought in a tray of delicious cream puffs. While Laura and Jose ate two of the fluffy pastries they overheard the deliveryman telling Sadie and Cook about the terrible death of man who lived down the lane. His horse had reared up while he was out riding and he had fallen, hit his head and died. Everyone took the news in stride; they knew the man, Mr. Scott, and he and his impoverished wife and children lived very close by. Their home was a bit of an eyesore to the Sheridans. Their lawn littered with cabbages, chickens, and old cans. They lived only a street apart from one another but were from two different worlds. Although she did not know the Scott family well, if at all, Laura was deeply upset by the news. She told Jose they had to call the party off. Jose told her that she was being stupid and that no one would expect them to cancel the garden party just because Mr. Scott died. Laura tried to appeal to her mother but Mrs. Sheridan was of the same mind as Jose. To distract her daughter, Mrs. Sheridan put a new black velvet hat with a yellow daisy trim on Laura's head but it was no use. Laura stomped off into her own room and shut the door. She looked at herself in the mirror and she saw that the black velvet hat was gorgeous and she looked beautiful in it; but she was still confused. She wanted to enjoy the party but she social obligation to help the Scotts but how? "You're being very absurd, Laura...people like that don't expect scarifies from us" her mother had said but Laura pictured the body of Mr. Scott being carried into his home while his wife and children looked on. The idea seemed so unreal, as if she were reading about in the newspaper, that Laura decided to worry about it later. There was nothing that she could do now anyway and the party would soon start. After lunch the guests started to arrive including her friend Kitty Maitland. Laurie came home soon after and Laura ran to him to tell him about the accident but he complimented her hat and she forgot all about the Scotts for the reminder of the party. Guests came in droves, couples strolled the garden path, the band played, flowers were admired, sandwiches eaten and then it was all over. The Sheridans were left alone again, at last. In the empty marquee Mr. Sheridan sat with his wife and children, eating another sandwich and telling them about Mr. Scott's accident all over again. Mrs. Sheridan thought it was very tactless of her husband but then she had the brilliant idea of sending a basket of leftover food from the party to the Scotts. She told Laura to make up a large basket and bring it down to the family. Laura protested at first. She thought it would be rude to bring leftovers to the grieving Scotts but her mother insisted they would be very appreciative for any help at the moment. Mrs. Sheridan wanted to send lilies as well but decided against it at the last moment. Laura set out down the lane and away from her own home and into the impoverished area of town where the Scott's lived. It was hard to imagine anyone living there at all but men bustled past and children played in doorways, all of them seemed to be staring at her and Laura felt a deep sense of shame for daring to wear her expensive lace dress and new hat amid such poverty. A crowd had gathered outside of the Scott house and as Laura approached the group parted to let her in. Startled by their behavior and feeling very out of place, Laura hoped to leave the basket on the doorstep and run home but a woman came to the door and ushered her inside. It was Mrs. Scott's sister. She showed Laura into the kitchen were Mrs. Scott sat crying before the fire, her face red and swollen. She seemed confused as to why Laura was there with the basket in her beautiful lace dress. Laura put the basket down and turned to leave but Mrs. Scott's sister insisted she see the body and before Laura could protest she was in the back bedroom. Mr. Scott seemed somehow more handsome in death than he had been in life. Laura was almost envious of the look contentment on his face, as if garden parties, baskets, and all of life's particularities were behind him. While the band had played and they had all laughed and socialized at the party, this man laid like "a marvel," she thought, just a road away. He seemed so happy and yet the situation was so grave that Laura felt she had to say something. "Forgive my hat" she mumbled and ran out the door. She met Laurie coming down the lane and took his arm, pressing herself against him. Laurie was surprised to see her crying. Laura said, "Isn't life..." but could not finish her thought. She repeated, "Isn't life..." again; Laurie nodded and answered, "Isn't it, darling?" .


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
3. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL. Chapter 3.I.

The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when
they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested;
their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over,
wondering, deciding, trying to remember where...

Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just
overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the
ceiling.

"Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?"

"The porter?" snapped Josephine. "Why ever the porter? What a very
extraordinary idea!"

"Because," said Constantia slowly, "he must often have to go to
funerals. And I noticed at--at the cemetery that he only had a bowler."
She paused. "I thought then how very much he'd appreciate a top-hat. We
ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father."

"But," cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the
dark at Constantia, "father's head!" And suddenly, for one awful moment,
she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least like
giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed awake
at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the porter's
head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father's hat... The
giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought it down; she
frowned fiercely at the dark and said "Remember" terribly sternly.

"We can decide to-morrow," she said.

Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed.

"Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?"

"Black?" almost shrieked Josephine.

"Well, what else?" said Constantia. "I was thinking--it doesn't seem
quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we're fully
dressed, and then when we're at home--"

"But nobody sees us," said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a
twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up the
pillows to get them well under again.

"Kate does," said Constantia. "And the postman very well might."

Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her
dressing-gown, and of Constantia's favourite indefinite green ones which
went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black
woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats.

"I don't think it's absolutely necessary," said she.

Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall have to post the papers with
the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail... How many letters
have we had up till now?"

"Twenty-three."

Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came
to "We miss our dear father so much" she had broken down and had to use
her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue
tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn't have put
it on--but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to
herself sadly "We miss our dear father so much," she could have cried if
she'd wanted to.

"Have you got enough stamps?" came from Constantia.

"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine crossly. "What's the good of asking
me that now?"

"I was just wondering," said Constantia mildly.

Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop.

"A mouse," said Constantia.

"It can't be a mouse because there aren't any crumbs," said Josephine.

"But it doesn't know there aren't," said Constantia.

A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she'd
left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to
think of it not finding anything. What would it do?

"I can't think how they manage to live at all," she said slowly.

"Who?" demanded Josephine.

And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, "Mice."

Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense, Con!" she said. "What have
mice got to do with it? You're asleep."

"I don't think I am," said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure.
She was.

Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that
her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the
pillow.

Chapter 3.II.

Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews
staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked
her. It was Josephine's idea. On the morning--well, on the last morning,
when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, "Don't you
think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for a
week as our guest?"

"Very nice," said Constantia.

"I thought," went on Josephine quickly, "I should just say this
afternoon, after I've paid her, 'My sister and I would be very pleased,
after all you've done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for
a week as our guest.' I'd have to put that in about being our guest in
case--"

"Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!" cried Constantia.

"One never knows," said Josephine sagely.

Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother.
It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times,
whereas if they'd been alone they could just have asked Kate if she
wouldn't have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And
meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial.

Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn't
help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their
kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch
more of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the last
mouthful, absent-mindedly--of course it wasn't absent-mindedly--taking
another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she
fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw a
minute strange insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia's
long, pale face lengthened and set, and she gazed away--away--far
over the desert, to where that line of camels unwound like a thread of
wool...

"When I was with Lady Tukes," said Nurse Andrews, "she had such a dainty
little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid balanced on
the--on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. And when you
wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent down and
speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme."

Josephine could hardly bear that. But "I think those things are very
extravagant" was all she said.

"But whey?" asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. "No
one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted--would one?"

"Ring, Con," cried Josephine. She couldn't trust herself to reply.

And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the
old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock something
or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange.

"Jam, please, Kate," said Josephine kindly.

Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot,
saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off.

"I'm afraid," said Nurse Andrews a moment later, "there isn't any."

"Oh, what a bother!" said Josephine. She bit her lip. "What had we
better do?"

Constantia looked dubious. "We can't disturb Kate again," she said
softly.

Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying at
everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to her
camels. Josephine frowned heavily--concentrated. If it hadn't been
for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their
blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came.

"I know," she said. "Marmalade. There's some marmalade in the sideboard.
Get it, Con."

"I hope," laughed Nurse Andrews--and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling
against a medicine-glass--"I hope it's not very bittah marmalayde."

Chapter 3.III.

But, after all, it was not long now, and then she'd be gone for good.
And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind
to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both
Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not
leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye
Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist
and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn't have been necessary.
It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say
something--something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it!
He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even
looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there,
wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a
difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him,
how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! But
no--one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then... went out.

Chapter 3.IV.

It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John's,
called the same afternoon.

"The end was quite peaceful, I trust?" were the first words he said as
he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room.

"Quite," said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of
them felt certain that eye wasn't at all a peaceful eye.

"Won't you sit down?" said Josephine.

"Thank you, Miss Pinner," said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded his
coat-tails and began to lower himself into father's arm-chair, but
just as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair
instead.

He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague.

"I want you to feel, Miss Pinner," said Mr. Farolles, "and you, Miss
Constantia, that I'm trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you
both, if you will let me. These are the times," said Mr Farolles, very
simply and earnestly, "when God means us to be helpful to one another."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles," said Josephine and Constantia.

"Not at all," said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through
his fingers and leaned forward. "And if either of you would like a
little Communion, either or both of you, here and now, you have only
to tell me. A little Communion is often very help--a great comfort," he
added tenderly.

But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the
drawing-room by themselves--with no--no altar or anything! The piano
would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not
possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come
bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the
bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important--about their
mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have to
wait... in torture?

"Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care
for it later," said Mr. Farolles.

"Oh yes, thank you very much!" they both said.

Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table.

"And about the funeral," he said softly. "I may arrange that--as your
dear father's old friend and yours, Miss Pinner--and Miss Constantia?"

Josephine and Constantia got up too.

"I should like it to be quite simple," said Josephine firmly, "and not
too expensive. At the same time, I should like--"

"A good one that will last," thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine
were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn't say that. "One
suitable to our father's position." She was very nervous.

"I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight," said Mr. Farolles
soothingly. "I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will find
him very helpful indeed."

Chapter 3.V.

Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them
could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had
had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was
lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without
asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he
was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. "Buried. You two
girls had me buried!" She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would
they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an
appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of
a person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The
other people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were
strangers; they couldn't be expected to understand that father was the
very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for
it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she thought,
stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him the
bills. What would he say then?

She heard him absolutely roaring. "And do you expect me to pay for this
gimcrack excursion of yours?"

"Oh," groaned poor Josephine aloud, "we shouldn't have done it, Con!"

And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a
frightened whisper, "Done what, Jug?"

"Let them bu-bury father like that," said Josephine, breaking down and
crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief.

"But what else could we have done?" asked Constantia wonderingly. "We
couldn't have kept him, Jug--we couldn't have kept him unburied. At any
rate, not in a flat that size."

Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy.

"I don't know," she said forlornly. "It is all so dreadful. I feel we
ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly
sure. One thing's certain"--and her tears sprang out again--"father will
never forgive us for this--never!"

Chapter 3.VI.

Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever
when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through
his things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on
Josephine's list of things to be done. "Go through father's things and
settle about them." But that was a very different matter from saying
after breakfast:

"Well, are you ready, Con?"

"Yes, Jug--when you are."

"Then I think we'd better get it over."

It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb
father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to
open the door without knocking even... Constantia's eyes were enormous at
the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees.

"You--you go first," she gasped, pushing Constantia.

But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, "No,
Jug, that's not fair. You're the eldest."

Josephine was just going to say--what at other times she wouldn't have
owned to for the world--what she kept for her very last weapon, "But
you're the tallest," when they noticed that the kitchen door was open,
and there stood Kate...

"Very stiff," said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her best
to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate!

It couldn't be helped. That girl was... Then the door was shut behind
them, but--but they weren't in father's room at all. They might have
suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat
altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to
look. Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut;
Constantia felt that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn't any handle
at all. It was the coldness which made it so awful. Or the
whiteness--which? Everything was covered. The blinds were down, a cloth
hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the bed; a huge fan of white paper
filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out her hand; she almost
expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer tingling in her
nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over the
cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.

"I had better pull up a blind," said Josephine bravely.

"Yes, it might be a good idea," whispered Constantia.

They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up and the cord flew
after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel tapped as if
trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia.

"Don't you think--don't you think we might put it off for another day?"
she whispered.

"Why?" snapped Josephine, feeling, as usual, much better now that she
knew for certain that Constantia was terrified. "It's got to be done.
But I do wish you wouldn't whisper, Con."

"I didn't know I was whispering," whispered Constantia.

"And why do you keep staring at the bed?" said Josephine, raising her
voice almost defiantly. "There's nothing on the bed."

"Oh, Jug, don't say so!" said poor Connie. "At any rate, not so loudly."

Josephine felt herself that she had gone too far. She took a wide swerve
over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but quickly drew it back
again.

"Connie!" she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her back
against the chest of drawers.

"Oh, Jug--what?"

Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that
she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain
to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the
top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with
his shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He
was watching there, hidden away--just behind the door-handle--ready to
spring.

She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to
in the old days when she was going to cry.

"I can't open," she nearly wailed.

"No, don't, Jug," whispered Constantia earnestly. "It's much better not
to. Don't let's open anything. At any rate, not for a long time."

"But--but it seems so weak," said Josephine, breaking down.

"But why not be weak for once, Jug?" argued Constantia, whispering
quite fiercely. "If it is weak." And her pale stare flew from the locked
writing-table--so safe--to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began
to breathe in a queer, panting away. "Why shouldn't we be weak for once
in our lives, Jug? It's quite excusable. Let's be weak--be weak, Jug.
It's much nicer to be weak than to be strong."

And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she'd done
about twice before in their lives: she marched over to the wardrobe,
turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock and
held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile
that she knew what she'd done--she'd risked deliberately father being in
there among his overcoats.

If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had crashed down on
Constantia, Josephine wouldn't have been surprised. On the contrary,
she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But nothing
happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the bigger flakes
of cold air fell on Josephine's shoulders and knees. She began to
shiver.

"Come, Jug," said Constantia, still with that awful callous smile, and
Josephine followed just as she had that last time, when Constantia had
pushed Benny into the round pond.

Chapter 3.VII.

But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. They
sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other.

"I don't feel I can settle to anything," said Josephine, "until I've had
something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?"

"I really don't see why we shouldn't," said Constantia carefully. She
was quite normal again. "I won't ring. I'll go to the kitchen door and
ask her."

"Yes, do," said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. "Tell her, just
two cups, Con, nothing else--on a tray."

"She needn't even put the jug on, need she?" said Constantia, as though
Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there.

"Oh no, certainly not! The jug's not at all necessary. She can pour
it direct out of the kettle," cried Josephine, feeling that would be a
labour-saving indeed.

Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her
small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy
steam, making it flutter from one side to the other.

"Speaking of Benny," said Josephine.

And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as
though he had.

"He'll expect us to send him something of father's, of course. But it's
so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon."

"You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage," murmured Constantia.

"No, lost," said Josephine sharply. "You know there's no post. Only
runners."

Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through
the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his
hands. Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like
an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia's
tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person
indeed... On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet,
stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when he
was impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda,
the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over
the leaves of the "Tatler."

"I think his watch would be the most suitable present," said Josephine.

Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.

"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?"

"But of course, I'd disguise it," said Josephine. "No one would know
it was a watch." She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a
curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She
even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard
corset-box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to
come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no,
it wouldn't be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it:
"Medium Women's 28. Extra Firm Busks." It would be almost too much of a
surprise for Benny to open that and find father's watch inside.

"And of course it isn't as though it would be going--ticking, I mean,"
said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery.
"At least," she added, "it would be very strange if after all that time
it was."

Chapter 3.VIII.

Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents.
She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn't it more usual for the only
grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, and
a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all probability,
had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore waistcoats
in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from year's end
to year's end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when he
came to tea, to know it was there. "I see you've got on grandfather's
watch, Cyril." It would be somehow so satisfactory.

Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of
course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate.

"It would have been such a point, having him," said Josephine.

"And he would have enjoyed it so," said Constantia, not thinking what
she was saying.

However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties.
Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.

"Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con and
I bought them at Buszard's this morning. We know what a man's appetite
is. So don't be ashamed of making a good tea."

Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her
winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia's only respectable
shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.

"I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't. I've only just had lunch, you
know."

"Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after four," cried Josephine.
Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll.

"It is, all the same," said Cyril. "I had to meet a man at Victoria, and
he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch and
to come on here. And he gave me--phew"--Cyril put his hand to his
forehead--"a terrific blow-out," he said.

It was disappointing--to-day of all days. But still he couldn't be
expected to know.

"But you'll have a meringue, won't you, Cyril?" said Aunt Josephine.
"These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so
fond of them. We were sure you are, too."

"I am, Aunt Josephine," cried Cyril ardently. "Do you mind if I take
half to begin with?"

"Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let you off with that."

"Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?" asked Auntie Con
gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers.

"Well, I don't quite know, Auntie Con," said Cyril breezily.

At that they both looked up.

"Don't know?" almost snapped Josephine. "Don't know a thing like that
about your own father, Cyril?"

"Surely," said Auntie Con softly.

Cyril tried to laugh it off. "Oh, well," he said, "it's such a long time
since--" He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for him.

"Even so," said Josephine.

And Auntie Con looked.

Cyril put down his teacup. "Wait a bit," he cried. "Wait a bit, Aunt
Josephine. What am I thinking of?"

He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee.

"Of course," he said, "it was meringues. How could I have forgotten?
Yes, Aunt Josephine, you're perfectly right. Father's most frightfully
keen on meringues."

They didn't only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; Auntie
Con gave a deep, deep sigh.

"And now, Cyril, you must come and see father," said Josephine. "He
knows you were coming to-day."

"Right," said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his chair;
suddenly he glanced at the clock.

"I say, Auntie Con, isn't your clock a bit slow? I've got to meet a man
at--at Paddington just after five. I'm afraid I shan't be able to stay
very long with grandfather."

"Oh, he won't expect you to stay very long!" said Aunt Josephine.

Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldn't make up her mind
if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost certain
of that. At any rate, it had been.

Cyril still lingered. "Aren't you coming along, Auntie Con?"

"Of course," said Josephine, "we shall all go. Come on, Con."

Chapter 3.IX.

They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into
grandfather's hot, sweetish room.

"Come on," said Grandfather Pinner. "Don't hang about. What is it?
What've you been up to?"

He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a
thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow
silk handkerchief.

"It's Cyril, father," said Josephine shyly. And she took Cyril's hand
and led him forward.

"Good afternoon, grandfather," said Cyril, trying to take his hand out
of Aunt Josephine's. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the
way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other side
of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her hands
were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather.

"Well," said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, "what have you got
to tell me?"

What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling
like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too.

But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, "Cyril says
his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear."

"Eh?" said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple
meringue-shell over one ear.

Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father is still very fond of
meringues."

"Can't hear," said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with
his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. "Tell me what she's
trying to say," he said.

(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine.

"Do, dear," she smiled. "It will please him so much."

"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump
again.

And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, "Father's still very fond of
meringues."

At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot.

"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's the matter with the boy? Meringues!
What about 'em?"

"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?" groaned Cyril desperately.

"It's quite all right, dear boy," said Aunt Josephine, as though he and
she were at the dentist's together. "He'll understand in a minute." And
she whispered to Cyril, "He's getting a bit deaf, you know." Then she
leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril only
wanted to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very fond of
meringues."

Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and
down.

"What an esstrordinary thing!" said old Grandfather Pinner. "What an
esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!"

And Cyril felt it was.

"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch," said Josephine.

"That would be very nice," said Constantia. "I seem to remember last
time he came there was some little trouble about the time."

Chapter 3.X.

They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual
fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall.

"Fried or boiled?" asked the bold voice.

Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the
moment. They could hardly take it in.

"Fried or boiled what, Kate?" asked Josephine, trying to begin to
concentrate.

Kate gave a loud sniff. "Fish."

"Well, why didn't you say so immediately?" Josephine reproached her
gently. "How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great
many things in this world you know, which are fried or boiled." And
after such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia,
"Which do you prefer, Con?"

"I think it might be nice to have it fried," said Constantia. "On the
other hand, of course, boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both
equally well... Unless you... In that case--"

"I shall fry it," said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their door
open and slamming the door of her kitchen.

Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until they
rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a very
lofty, imposing way, "Do you mind following me into the drawing-room,
Constantia? I've got something of great importance to discuss with you."

For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to
talk over Kate.

Josephine closed the door meaningly. "Sit down, Constantia," she said,
still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for the
first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she felt
indeed quite a stranger.

"Now the question is," said Josephine, bending forward, "whether we
shall keep her or not."

"That is the question," agreed Constantia.

"And this time," said Josephine firmly, "we must come to a definite
decision."

Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all
the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, "Yes, Jug."

"You see, Con," explained Josephine, "everything is so changed now."
Constantia looked up quickly. "I mean," went on Josephine, "we're not
dependent on Kate as we were." And she blushed faintly. "There's not
father to cook for."

"That is perfectly true," agreed Constantia. "Father certainly doesn't
want any cooking now, whatever else--"

Josephine broke in sharply, "You're not sleepy, are you, Con?"

"Sleepy, Jug?" Constantia was wide-eyed.

"Well, concentrate more," said Josephine sharply, and she returned
to the subject. "What it comes to is, if we did"--and this she barely
breathed, glancing at the door--"give Kate notice"--she raised her voice
again--"we could manage our own food."

"Why not?" cried Constantia. She couldn't help smiling. The idea was so
exciting. She clasped her hands. "What should we live on, Jug?"

"Oh, eggs in various forms!" said Jug, lofty again. "And, besides, there
are all the cooked foods."

"But I've always heard," said Constantia, "they are considered so very
expensive."

"Not if one buys them in moderation," said Josephine. But she tore
herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after
her.

"What we've got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust
Kate or not."

Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips.

"Isn't it curious, Jug," said she, "that just on this one subject I've
never been able to quite make up my mind?"

Chapter 3.XI.

She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one
prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her
and deliberately made a face. Mightn't she very well have been in pain?
Wasn't it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face
at her? If Kate answered "No"--and, of course, she would say "No"--what
a position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was
almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and
Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had
come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under
her lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had
laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and
then called Josephine to witness.

"You see, Jug?"

"Quite, Con."

"Now we shall be able to tell."

But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof
as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened
as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily.

"You come, Jug, and decide. I really can't. It's too difficult."

But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, "Now you've put
the doubt into my mind, Con, I'm sure I can't tell myself."

"Well, we can't postpone it again," said Josephine. "If we postpone it
this time--"

Chapter 3.XII.

But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up.
Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together.

"Run, Con," said Josephine. "Run quickly. There's sixpence on the--"

Then they remembered. It didn't matter. They would never have to stop
the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told to
make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound that
loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying enough.
The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would not
thump.

     "It never will thump again,
      It never will thump again,

played the barrel-organ.

What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked
different. She couldn't be going to cry.

"Jug, Jug," said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. "Do you
know what day it is? It's Saturday. It's a week to-day, a whole week."

     "A week since father died,
      A week since father died,"

cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and
sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there fell
a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came--and stayed,
deepened--until it shone almost golden.

"The sun's out," said Josephine, as though it really mattered.

A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round,
bright notes, carelessly scattered.

Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then her
hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite
Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such
a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day
to be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. "I know
something that you don't know," said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what
could it be? And yet she had always felt there was... something.

The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed
its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it.
When it came to mother's photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it
lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except
the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did
the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As
soon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course,
this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. Josephine
remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather boa to
Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed their
mother in Ceylon... Would everything have been different if mother hadn't
died? She didn't see why. Aunt Florence had lived with them until they
had left school, and they had moved three times and had their yearly
holiday and... and there'd been changes of servants, of course.

Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the
window-ledge. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." But Josephine felt they were not
sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little
crying noise. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." Ah, what was it crying, so weak and
forlorn?

If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody
for them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends before
he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a
single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they'd met
them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than
strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and so
on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there had
been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house who
had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But
by the time Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faint
to read; they couldn't even make out to which of them it was addressed.
And he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking
after father, and at the same time keeping out of father's way. But now?
But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face.
She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams...

Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the
Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder
was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept
out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the
floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The
big, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the
carved screen had leered at her and she hadn't minded. She remembered
too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself
and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something
she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There had
been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, getting
things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them back to
get more things on approval, and arranging father's trays and trying not
to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel.
It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into the
moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt
herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What did
it all lead to? Now? Now?

She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went
over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to
Josephine, something frightfully important, about--about the future and
what...

"Don't you think perhaps--" she began.

But Josephine interrupted her. "I was wondering if now--" she murmured.
They stopped; they waited for each other.

"Go on, Con," said Josephine.

"No, no, Jug; after you," said Constantia.

"No, say what you were going to say. You began," said Josephine.

"I... I'd rather hear what you were going to say first," said Constantia.

"Don't be absurd, Con."

"Really, Jug."

"Connie!"

"Oh, Jug!"

A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I can't say what I was going to
say, Jug, because I've forgotten what it was... that I was going to say."

Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the
sun had been. Then she replied shortly, "I've forgotten too."

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: I "The week after was one of the busiest of their lives" . Josephine and Constantia, daughters of the late Colonel Pinner, sat awake in their beds trying to remember if they had forgotten anything. Constantia asked Josephine if they should give their father's top hat to the porter. She had noticed during their father's funeral that the porter only had a bowler hat and she thought he should have a top hat instead, as thank you gift for being so nice to their father. Josephine balked at the idea and for one moment of madness she thought she might laugh at the idea that their dead father's head would be cold if they gave his hat to the porter. She controlled herself with some effort. Constantia then suggested they dye their nightgowns black to show they are in mourning, to which Josephine rejected the idea saying it wasn't necessary because no one would see their nightgowns. Then a mouse scurried across the room and Constantia felt sorry that she hadn't left a biscuit out for it and she speculated to her sister that the life of a mouse must be very hard. Josephine told Constantia she was not making any sense and to go to sleep but her sister had already done so. Josephine could not sleep and instead rolled herself into a ball pressed her face against her pillow. II Nurse Andrews stayed on with them for a week after the Colonel's death. It was Josephine's suggestion since Nurse Andrews had been so attentive toward their father. Both sisters agreed it was for the best. Their optimism was short lived; however, as it became very obvious early on in the week that Nurse Andrews was a difficult houseguest. It was a trial for the sisters to sit down to meals at proper times and ask their maid, Kate, to accommodate Nurse Andrews' particularities. She was fearful of butter, for whatever reason, and she had an annoying habit of taking more bread than was necessary and then helping herself to seconds. When this happened Josephine restrained herself from commenting by staring fixedly at the tablecloth and Constantia retreated into her imagination. Today was no different. They had finished their meal, Nurse Andrews having eaten twice as much as the sisters, when Kate came out of the kitchen. Young and proud, Kate came with the dessert and to clean up after the "old tabbies." She set the dessert on the table and reluctantly got the jam pot from the cupboard at Josephine request before stalking off. The jam pot was empty. Nurse Andrews was not surprised, probably having eaten the jam herself. Constantia did not want to bother Kate again and so they had marmalade instead. Nurse Andrews hoped it was not too bitter. III Despite their private opinions of Nurse Andrews, the sisters agreed that she had been very kind toward their father and was simply devoted to his care during the last few days of his life. Although the sisters privately thought Nurse Andrews had overdone things at the end. When they came in to say goodbye to their father, Nurse Andrews insisted on staying in the room and kept checking the Colonel's pulse. Josephine worried their father wanted to say something to them in private but couldn't because of Nurse Andrews. In the end he opened one eye and glared at them for before dying. IV The glaring eye made it very awkward for the sisters whenever they were asked if their father had died peacefully. That eye did not look peaceful at all. Mr. Farolles of St. John's Church called on the sisters soon after their father's death to talk about funeral arrangements. He offered to give them Communion at the house but both sisters were horrified at the idea. Josephine imaged Mr. Farolles using the piano as an altar and Kate barging in on them as they received the holy sacrament. The sisters politely sidestepped the issue. Mr. Farolles offered to make all of the necessary arrangements for the funeral since he had known their father so well. Josephine said she wanted the ceremony to be simple and not too expensive and one that was appropriate toward their father's station. Mr. Farolles agreed and departed. V Neither of them could believe that their father wasn't coming back. At the cemetery Josephine had a moment of panic when the coffin was being lowered into the ground. They had not asked their father's permission to do so and she knew he would find out about it and be furious. She thought she heard his walking stick thumping against his bedroom floor in irritation. "You two girls had me buried!" . Everyone else at the funeral seemed to see the burial as a natural turn of events but Josephine knew her father would find a way to blame her and Constantia, even for his death. In the cab on the way home from the cemetery, Josephine worried that they had spent too much money on the funeral. She dreaded having to show her father the bills. What would he say? Weeping into her handkerchief, Josephine said to her sister they never should have let their father be buried. Constantia replied that there was no other choice. They couldn't keep the body in the house. Josephine said they should have been absolutely sure that he had been dead before they buried him and that their father would never forgive them for any of it. VI The thought that their father would never forgive them for burying him was on their minds as Josephine and Constantia went into their father's room to go through his things and decided what should be done with them. Hesitating outside of the door, Josephine was reluctant to even touch the handle but then they were inside and it was as if they had never been in there before. Terrified they stared around at the cold, white room and Constantia half expected snow to start falling. The noise of a car outside shook them from their thoughts and Josephine walked to the window to let in some light. Her hand barely touched the blinds when it suddenly flew up and rolled itself up. It was too much for Constantia who wanted to come back another day. Josephine felt relieved by her sister's unease and told her they had to press on and snapped at Constantia to stop staring at the empty bed. Upset by her outburst, Josephine walked over to a chest of drawers and tried to open it but drew back her hand immediately. Startled, Josephine had the horrible thought that perhaps their father was inside the chest of drawers waiting for them. He was in with the neckties and the pajamas and the suits or maybe he was behind the door watching them, ready to pounce. Constantia suggests again that they leave, that it is acceptable for them to be weak considering their circumstances. "It's much nicer to be weak than to be strong" . Josephine watched as Constantia locked their father's wardrobe and removed the key. She half thought the wardrobe would fall on top of her sister but it did not. Leading the way, the key held aloft, Josephine followed Constantia out the door. VII Distressed, the sisters sat in the dining room and asked Kate to bring them hot water. Once they were calm Josephine brought up the subject of their brother Benny and if they should send him something of their father's. Benny lived in Ceylon, an island off the coast of India. Josephine did not know what to send to Benny, fearing whatever she sent would be lost. Ceylon did not have post, they had runners who hand-delivered packages all over the island. Josephine and Constantia stopped what they were doing to imagine two dark skinned men running to deliver something of their fathers' to Benny who stood on his veranda. His hand shook the same way their father's did when he was impatient. Behind Benny was his mysterious wife, Hilda, who the sisters had never met. Their fantasy faded. Josephine said she would send their father's gold watch to Benny and she would disguise it by wrapping it in a large and odd shaped package. Constantia said it was a good thing the watch no longer worked or the ticking might give it away. VIII Josephine began to have second thoughts about sending the watch to Benny, so far away and in such a hot climate. She imagined men did not wear pocket watches in Ceylon. Instead she thought they should give the watch to Cyril, their father's only grandson, who worked in London and who would use the watch. She thrilled at the idea of having Cyril over for tea and asking him to produce the watch for them to talk over. Cyril had not come to the funeral. His note had been a blow to the sisters but they understood how busy he was in London. He promised to visit his aunts as soon as he could. A visit from Cyril was a rare treat for the sisters. The last time he came they had purchased expensive desserts, which had eaten into their monthly budget; as a result they had to go without shoe repairs and new gloves. Josephine cut Cyril a large slice of cake but he rejected it, saying he wasn't hungry having just had a large lunch with a work associate. Disappointed, Constantia insisted Cyril have a piece of meringues. It was his father's favorite dessert. Cyril accepted half of a meringue and said he did not know what his father's favorite dessert was, a comment that sent his aunts into a small frenzy. How could he not know his father's favorite dessert? Josephine became almost snappish and Constantia looked at him pointedly but her voice was soft when she questioned him. He broke down and said that meringues were his father's favorite after all and he was almost shocked at the extent of their happiness when he said this. Josephine asked Cyril to go up to his grandfather's room. On the way up Cyril noticed their clocks were slow and said so to Constantia. He had to meet someone at five and couldn't stay long with grandfather. Constantia stared at the clock for some time, unable to decide if it was too fast or too slow. Josephine called to her and they all went to visit the Colonel. IX Cyril followed his aunts into his grandfather's stiflingly hot sick room. The old man was sitting by the fire, his walking stick in his hand. Josephine grabbed Cyril's hand and led him over to his grandfather like a child. Cyril tried to pull free. Grandfather Pinner shot him the stern, assessing look he was most famous for. His aunts hung back, Constantia feebly waiting by the door, her eyes never leaving the old man's. Grandfather pounded his stick on the floor and asked bluntly "Well...what have you got to tell me?" . Cyril panicked and could not think of anything to say. Josephine came to his rescue and said loudly that Cyril's father still likes meringues. Grandfather did not hear her and to Cyril's deep embarrassment he had to repeat the phrase twice. Grandfather knocked his walking stick against the floor in agitation. Josephine quietly apologized to Cyril and said Grandfather was going deaf. She yelled that Cyril's father still likes meringues. Grandfather looked perplexed at first and then said it was a stupid thing to come all the way up there to say. Cyril agreed wit him. Josephine decided she would send Cyril the watch after all and Constantia said she thought it was a wonderful idea, remembering that Cyril had mentioned the clocks the last time he was there. X Kate suddenly burst through the door and asked them without pretense "fried or boiled?" Perplexed but used to Kate's abrupt demeanor Josephine asked nicely what was to be fired or boiled. Kate said fish with rude sniff of her nose. Constantia said that she would like it fried but then also said she wouldn't mind if it was boiled, her voice trailing off dreamily. Kate muttered the word "fried" under her breath and walked out, slamming the kitchen door. Josephine rose from her chair and beckoned her sister into the drawing room so they could discuss Kate in private. Josephine addressed her sister in a business-like fashion and said they must come to a final decision about whether or not to keep Kate. They had teetered with the idea of letting Kate go before but never had the nerve to go through with it, especially when father was alive. Now Josephine thought they could do without a maid. Constantia agreed saying that now that father didn't eat anymore... her words failed her. Josephine told her to pay attention and said that, since their father was now gone, they could do their own cooking; having never done it before, they assumed it was a simple process. Josephine suggested they live mostly off eggs, to start. The question of letting Kate go depended entirely on if they could they trust her. XI Constantia could never make up her mind about Kate. She thought she was rude and disrespectful but whenever Kate did something to provoke Constantia into forming a concrete opinion of her, Constantia would make excuses for Kate's behavior and question her own judgment. She tried laying traps for Kate. One night Constantia arranged her chest of drawers in such a way that she would know if anyone touched something inside. She had a suspicion that Kate went through her drawers when no one was looking. Constantia invited Josephine to observe the drawers' contents as well. Unfortunately, when Constantia checked the drawers she could not tell if Kate had tampered with them or not. Josephine was equally indecisive on both matters. XII While the sisters pondered Kate's future a barrel organ began to play outside. Josephine and Constantia sprang up and ran to get money to bribe the organ player to stop making noise but then they remembered. Their father was dead and they would never hear his stick pounding on the bedroom floor to make the organ music stop playing. They would never hear him yell at them again. Constantia thought she might cry but then she smiled and said it had been a whole week since their father's death and there was hidden joy beneath her words. Flickering sunlight shone onto the carpet at her feet until dusk began to settle. She tried to catch the fading light with her hand but withdrew her fingers at the last moment. Walking to the mantelpiece she stood before her favorite Buddha statue and thought he might know something about her future. Josephine watched the sunlight settle on their mother's portrait above the piano. She wondered, "Why did photographs of dead people always fade so?" She had often imagined what their lives would have been like had their mother lived to raise them but she did not often dwell on this fantasy. Their Aunt Florence had lived with them until they were out of school and then they had moved three times and different servants had come and gone in their lives...Young sparrows interrupted her thoughts. They chirped from the window ledge but as she listened she began to believe they were not really chirping at all but crying and that the crying sound was coming from somewhere inside of her. It was a weak and forlorn sound. She thought if her mother had lived she and Constantia would have been married by now but there had only ever been father and he had quarreled with the only eligible men in their lives long ago. They had never met anyone who was suitable. One year at boarding school, a mysterious man had left a note on their water jug but by the time they noticed it the note's writing had been washed away in the water. They never even knew to which of them the note was addressed. The man left the next day and the rest of their lives had been spent taking care of their father. Now though... Constantia continued to listen to the barrel organ and watched the Buddha, the familiar longing she felt inside of her was sharper somehow, no longer vague and unfocused. She remembered coming into this same room when she was a child and lying on the floor, pretending to be crucified. She wasn't sure why she did it but she had not been afraid. At the seashore on holiday Constantia would stand by the water's edge and sing watching the restless sea before her. She and Josephine spent the majority of their lives running errands and buying food on credit. Mostly they tried to stay out of the way and not annoy their father. Now, their lives were changing and Constantia thought she had only ever felt alive in brief moments by the sea or during a thunderstorm. All of the other moments were dream fragments and whenever her true self awoke she was greeted with a tremendous wanting. For what, she did not know. Constantia walked over to Josephine determined to say something important about their futures, but both sisters spoke at once, "Don't you think perhaps" . They politely encouraged the other to speak but neither of them could express their true feelings. Instead, they said they had forgotten what they wanted to say just as a large cloud filled the sky exactly where the sun had been.