Clare remembered the look on Louise's face. She hesitated.
"She will get over it," she said.
The kind old woman looked worried.
"You must not let her feel that she has failed over this, Miss Hartill—on the top of the other trouble. You will be judicious?"
A door slammed in the distance; there was a blurr of voices, a sound of hurrying footsteps.
Clare rose impatiently; she was tired of the subject.
"It will be all right, Miss Marsham. I understand Louise. What in the world is that disgraceful noise?"
But the door was flung open before she could reach it. Alwynne stood in the aperture, panting a little. In her arms lay Louise, her head falling limply, like a dead bird's. Behind them, peering faces showed for a moment, white against the dusk of the passage. Then Alwynne, staggering beneath the dead weight, stumbled forward, and the door swung to with a crash.
The roomful of women stared in horrified silence.
"She's dead," said Alwynne. "I found her on the steps. She fell from a window. One of the children saw it. She's dead."