One morning Miss Barry sat by the window in her niece's room with some mending, while Linda, in her white négligée, dragged herself about the apartment as if all the spring in her supple young body had grown flaccid. Occasionally the older woman glanced over the rim of her glasses at the girl's expressionless face. Miss Belinda herself felt numbed by shock, but there was present with her the instinctive necessity which all had felt, of standing between Linda and a complete understanding of the situation.
Ever since the girl's breakfast tray had been removed that morning they had remained here in silence.
"There's one way I can't make any mistake," thought the aunt, "and that's by holding my tongue. She knows I'm here, and that if I can do anything for her I want to do it."
The housekeeper had answered her appeal for something to keep her hands busy, and so she worked while Linda moved languidly about, apparently forgetful of her presence.
While they still remained thus, a card was brought up.
Miss Barry took it from the maid.
"Bertram King, Linda," she said. "Will you see him?"
She was surprised by the life which sprang for a moment into the girl's eyes.
"No," answered Linda clearly.
Her aunt stood undecidedly, the linen in one hand and the card in the other.