He had a wife, hadn't he? A narrow, grudging woman, who couldn't understand him.... A woman like Mamma.... Mamma, who was turning out the attic and laughing at Louise.... Not that that mattered—but to clear the attic—to take away Mother's things.... What would Mother do—little, darling Mother...? It was holidays.... Mother would know.... Mother would be there, waiting for Louise. A hideous picture rose up in Louise's mind. With photographic clearness she saw the attic and the faint shadow of her mother wavering from visibility to nothingness as the sunlight caught and lost her impalpable outlines: there was a sound of footsteps—Louise heard it: the faint thing held out sweet arms and Louise strained towards them; but the door opened, and Mrs. Denny and the maids came in. Mamma pointed, while the maids laughed and took their brooms and chased the forlorn appearance, and it fled before them about the room, cowering, afraid, calling in its whisper to Louise. But the maids closed in, and swept that shrinking nothingness into the dark corner behind the old trunk: but when they had moved the trunk, there was nothing to be seen but a delicate cobweb or two. So they swept it into the dustpan and settled down to the scrubbing of the floor.
The picture faded. Louise crouched over her desk, her head in her hands. About her the pens scratched rhythmically.
For a space she existed merely. She could not have told how long it was before thoughts began once more to drift across the blankness of her mind like the first imperceptible flakes that herald a fall of snow.
She moved stiffly in her seat. The thoughts came thicker—thoughts of her mother still, of the dream presence that she would not feel again.... Never again? There was the Last Judgment, of course.... She would see her then.... And who knew when the Judgment would come.... In a thousand years? In the next five seconds? She counted slowly, holding her breath: "One—two—three—four—five——" and stared out expectantly into space through the lashes of her dropped lids.
All about her sat forms, bowed like her own, scarcely moving. Of course, of course—she nodded to herself—satisfied with her own acuteness. Obviously, the Last Judgment.... They were all waiting for God.... He hadn't arrived yet, it seemed.... Well, one might look about a little first.... How queer Heaven smelt! The heart of Louise leapt within her.... Now was the opportunity to find Mother.... Mother would be somewhere among the dead.... But they all had ugly backs.... But Mother.... Of course Mother would be standing on that high platform place like a throne.... It was her place.... She always stood there.... Or did she? Was there not some one else? very like her ... with eyes ... and a smile ... whom Louise knew so well? Wasn't it Mother? With patient deliberation she strove to disentangle the two personalities, that combined and divided and blurred again into one. There was Mother—and the Other—one was shape and one was shadow—but which was real? There was Mother—and the Other—who was Mother? No, who was—who was—The Other was not Mother—but if not, who?—who?—who?—
A chorus of angels took up the chant: Who? who? who? They had flat, faint voices, that gritted and whispered, like pens passing over paper.
Who? who? who?
The answer came thundering back out of infinite space in the awaited voice of God....
"You have ten minutes more."
Louise gave a faint gasp. Reality enveloped her once more, licking up her illusion as instantly and fiercely as an unnoticed candle will shrivel up a woman's muslins. She stood naked amid the ashes of her dreams.