For two or three hours longer the moon poured its light throughthe empty air. Unbroken by clouds it fell straightly, and layalmost like a chill white frost over the sea and the earth.

　　During these hours the silence was not broken, and the only movementwas caused by the movement of trees and branches which stirred slightly,and then the shadows that lay across the white spaces of the landmoved too. In this profound silence one sound only was audible,the sound of a slight but continuous breathing which never ceased,although it never rose and never fell. It continued after the birdshad begun to flutter from branch to branch, and could be heardbehind the first thin notes of their voices. It continuedall through the hours when the east whitened, and grew red,and a faint blue tinged the sky, but when the sun rose it ceased,and gave place to other sounds.

　　The first sounds that were heard were little inarticulate cries,the cries, it seemed, of children or of the very poor, of people whowere very weak or in pain. But when the sun was above the horizon,the air which had been thin and pale grew every moment richerand warmer, and the sounds of life became bolder and more fullof courage and authority. By degrees the smoke began to ascendin wavering breaths over the houses, and these slowly thickened,until they were as round and straight as columns, and instead ofstriking upon pale white blinds, the sun shone upon dark windows,beyond which there was depth and space.

　　The sun had been up for many hours, and the great dome of air waswarmed through and glittering with thin gold threads of sunlight,before any one moved in the hotel. White and massive it stoodin the early light, half asleep with its blinds down.

　　At about half-past nine Miss Allan came very slowly into the hall,and walked very slowly to the table where the morning paperswere laid, but she did not put out her hand to take one; she stoodstill, thinking, with her head a little sunk upon her shoulders.

　　She looked curiously old, and from the way in which she stood,a little hunched together and very massive, you could see whatshe would be like when she was really old, how she would sitday after day in her chair looking placidly in front of her.

　　Other people began to come into the room, and to pass her, but shedid not speak to any of them or even look at them, and at last,as if it were necessary to do something, she sat down in a chair,and looked quietly and fixedly in front of her. She feltvery old this morning, and useless too, as if her life had beena failure, as if it had been hard and laborious to no purpose.

　　She did not want to go on living, and yet she knew that she would.

　　She was so strong that she would live to be a very old woman.

　　She would probably live to be eighty, and as she was now fifty,that left thirty years more for her to live. She turned her handsover and over in her lap and looked at them curiously; her old hands,that had done so much work for her. There did not seem to be muchpoint in it all; one went on, of course one went on. . . . Shelooked up to see Mrs. Thornbury standing beside her, with lines drawnupon her forehead, and her lips parted as if she were about to aska question.

　　Miss Allan anticipated her.

　　"Yes," she said. "She died this morning, very early, about three o'clock."Mrs. Thornbury made a little exclamation, drew her lips together,and the tears rose in her eyes. Through them she looked atthe hall which was now laid with great breadths of sunlight,and at the careless, casual groups of people who were standingbeside the solid arm-chairs and tables. They looked to her unreal,or as people look who remain unconscious that some great explosionis about to take place beside them. But there was no explosion,and they went on standing by the chairs and the tables. Mrs. Thornburyno longer saw them, but, penetrating through them as though theywere without substance, she saw the house, the people in the house,the room, the bed in the room, and the figure of the dead lying stillin the dark beneath the sheets. She could almost see the dead.

　　She could almost hear the voices of the mourners.

　　"They expected it?" she asked at length.

　　Miss Allan could only shake her head.

　　"I know nothing," she replied, "except what Mrs. Flushing's maidtold me. She died early this morning."The two women looked at each other with a quiet significant gaze,and then, feeling oddly dazed, and seeking she did not knowexactly what, Mrs. Thornbury went slowly upstairs and walkedquietly along the passages, touching the wall with her fingersas if to guide herself. Housemaids were passing briskly from roomto room, but Mrs. Thornbury avoided them; she hardly saw them;they seemed to her to be in another world. She did not even lookup directly when Evelyn stopped her. It was evident that Evelynhad been lately in tears, and when she looked at Mrs. Thornbury shebegan to cry again. Together they drew into the hollow of a window,and stood there in silence. Broken words formed themselves at lastamong Evelyn's sobs. "It was wicked," she sobbed, "it was cruel--they were so happy."Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder.

　　"It seems hard--very hard," she said. She paused and looked outover the slope of the hill at the Ambroses' villa; the windows wereblazing in the sun, and she thought how the soul of the dead hadpassed from those windows. Something had passed from the world.

　　It seemed to her strangely empty.

　　"And yet the older one grows," she continued, her eyes regainingmore than their usual brightness, "the more certain one becomes thatthere is a reason. How could one go on if there were no reason?"she asked.

　　She asked the question of some one, but she did not ask it of Evelyn.

　　Evelyn's sobs were becoming quieter. "There must be a reason,"she said. "It can't only be an accident. For it was an accident--it need never have happened."Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply.

　　"But we must not let ourselves think of that," she added, "and letus hope that they don't either. Whatever they had done it mighthave been the same. These terrible illnesses--""There's no reason--I don't believe there's any reason at all!"Evelyn broke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly backwith a little snap.

　　"Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer?

　　I honestly believe," she went on, lowering her voice slightly,"that Rachel's in Heaven, but Terence. . . .""What's the good of it all?" she demanded.

　　Mrs. Thornbury shook her head slightly but made no reply,and pressing Evelyn's hand she went on down the passage.

　　Impelled by a strong desire to hear something, although she didnot know exactly what there was to hear, she was making her wayto the Flushings' room. As she opened their door she felt thatshe had interrupted some argument between husband and wife.

　　Mrs. Flushing was sitting with her back to the light, and Mr. Flushingwas standing near her, arguing and trying to persuade her of something.

　　"Ah, here is Mrs. Thornbury," he began with some relief in his voice.

　　"You have heard, of course. My wife feels that she was in someway responsible. She urged poor Miss Vinrace to come on the expedition.

　　I'm sure you will agree with me that it is most unreasonable to feel that.

　　We don't even know--in fact I think it most unlikely--that she caughther illness there. These diseases--Besides, she was set on going.

　　She would have gone whether you asked her or not, Alice.""Don't, Wilfrid," said Mrs. Flushing, neither moving nor takingher eyes off the spot on the floor upon which they rested.

　　"What's the use of talking? What's the use--?" She ceased.

　　"I was coming to ask you," said Mrs. Thornbury, addressing Wilfrid,for it was useless to speak to his wife. "Is there anything youthink that one could do? Has the father arrived? Could one goand see?"The strongest wish in her being at this moment was to be able todo something for the unhappy people--to see them--to assure them--to help them. It was dreadful to be so far away from them.

　　But Mr. Flushing shook his head; he did not think that now--later perhaps one might be able to help. Here Mrs. Flushing rose stiffly,turned her back to them, and walked to the dressing-room opposite.

　　As she walked, they could see her breast slowly rise and slowly fall.

　　But her grief was silent. She shut the door behind her.

　　When she was alone by herself she clenched her fists together, and beganbeating the back of a chair with them. She was like a wounded animal.

　　She hated death; she was furious, outraged, indignant with death,as if it were a living creature. She refused to relinquish herfriends to death. She would not submit to dark and nothingness.

　　She began to pace up and down, clenching her hands, and makingno attempt to stop the quick tears which raced down her cheeks.

　　She sat still at last, but she did not submit. She looked stubbornand strong when she had ceased to cry.

　　In the next room, meanwhile, Wilfrid was talking to Mrs. Thornburywith greater freedom now that his wife was not sitting there.

　　"That's the worst of these places," he said. "People will behaveas though they were in England, and they're not. I've no doubt myselfthat Miss Vinrace caught the infection up at the villa itself.

　　She probably ran risks a dozen times a day that might have givenher the illness. It's absurd to say she caught it with us."If he had not been sincerely sorry for them he would have been annoyed.

　　"Pepper tells me," he continued, "that he left the house becausehe thought them so careless. He says they never washed theirvegetables properly. Poor people! It's a fearful price to pay.

　　But it's only what I've seen over and over again--people seemto forget that these things happen, and then they do happen,and they're surprised.

　　Mrs. Thornbury agreed with him that they had been very careless,and that there was no reason whatever to think that she had caughtthe fever on the expedition; and after talking about other thingsfor a short time, she left him and went sadly along the passageto her own room. There must be some reason why such things happen,she thought to herself, as she shut the door. Only at first itwas not easy to understand what it was. It seemed so strange--so unbelievable. Why, only three weeks ago--only a fortnight ago,she had seen Rachel; when she shut her eyes she could almostsee her now, the quiet, shy girl who was going to be married.

　　She thought of all that she would have missed had she died atRachel's age, the children, the married life, the unimaginabledepths and miracles that seemed to her, as she looked back,to have lain about her, day after day, and year after year.

　　The stunned feeling, which had been making it difficult for herto think, gradually gave way to a feeling of the opposite nature;she thought very quickly and very clearly, and, looking back overall her experiences, tried to fit them into a kind of order.

　　There was undoubtedly much suffering, much struggling, but, on the whole,surely there was a balance of happiness--surely order did prevail.

　　Nor were the deaths of young people really the saddest things in life--they were saved so much; they kept so much. The dead--she calledto mind those who had died early, accidentally--were beautiful;she often dreamt of the dead. And in time Terence himself wouldcome to feel--She got up and began to wander restlessly aboutthe room.

　　For an old woman of her age she was very restless, and for one ofher clear, quick mind she was unusually perplexed. She could notsettle to anything, so that she was relieved when the door opened.

　　She went up to her husband, took him in her arms, and kissed himwith unusual intensity, and then as they sat down together she beganto pat him and question him as if he were a baby, an old, tired,querulous baby. She did not tell him about Miss Vinrace's death,for that would only disturb him, and he was put out already.

　　She tried to discover why he was uneasy. Politics again?

　　What were those horrid people doing? She spent the whole morningin discussing politics with her husband, and by degrees she becamedeeply interested in what they were saying. But every now and thenwhat she was saying seemed to her oddly empty of meaning.

　　At luncheon it was remarked by several people that the visitorsat the hotel were beginning to leave; there were fewer every day.

　　There were only forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty thatthere had been. So old Mrs. Paley computed, gazing about her with herfaded eyes, as she took her seat at her own table in the window.

　　Her party generally consisted of Mr. Perrott as well as Arthurand Susan, and to-day Evelyn was lunching with them also.

　　She was unusually subdued. Having noticed that her eyes were red,and guessing the reason, the others took pains to keep upan elaborate conversation between themselves. She suffered itto go on for a few minutes, leaning both elbows on the table,and leaving her soup untouched, when she exclaimed suddenly,"I don't kno............