Gertrude was sitting by the window with Constance Devonshire one bleak January afternoon.
Conny's face wore a softened look. The fierce, rebellious misery of her heart had given place to a gentler grief, the natural human sorrow for the dead.
This was a farewell visit. The next day she and her family were setting out for the South of France.
"I tried to make Fred come with me to-day," Constance was saying; "but he is dining with some kindred spirits at the Café Royal, and then going on to the Gaiety. He said there would be no time."
Fred had been once to Baker Street since the unfortunate interview with Lucy; had paid a brief visit of condolence, when he had been very much on his dignity and very afraid of meeting Lucy's eye. The re-establishment of the old relations was not more possible than it usually is in such cases.
"How long do you expect to be at Cannes?" Gertrude said, after one of the pauses which kept on stretching themselves baldly across the conversation.
"Till the end of March, probably. Isn't Lucy coming up to say 'good-bye' to a fellow?"
"She will be up soon. She is much distressed about the over-exposure of some plates, and is trying to remedy the misfortune. Do you know, by the by, that we are thinking of taking an apprentice? Mr. Russel has found a girl—a lady—who will pay us a premium, and probably live with us."
"I think that is a good plan," said Conny, staring wistfully out of window.
How strange it seemed, after all that had happened, to be sitting here quietly, talking about over-exposed negatives, premiums, and apprentices.