"I got a paint-box," she said defiantly, "and painted them brown—like the paintwork. It would have broken up Clare to know—and all the questions and comments. What would you have done?"
He ignored the challenge, answered only the misery in the tone.
"It can't have been easy for you—that week," he said gently.
"Easy?" She began to laugh harshly. "And yet I don't know," she reflected. "I don't think I felt anything much at the time. It was like being in a play. Almost interesting. Entirely unreal. At the inquest—I lied as easily as saying grace. I wasn't a bit worried. What did worry me was a bit of sticking-plaster on the coroner's chin. One end was uncurled, and I was longing for him to stick it down again. It seemed more important than anything else that he should stick it down. It would have been a real relief to me. I'm not trying to be funny."
"And when it was over—I was quite cheerful. And at the funeral—I know they thought I was callous. But I didn't feel sad. Only cold—icy cold—in my hands and my feet and my heart. And I felt desperately irritated with them all for crying. People look appalling when they cry." She paused. "So they banked up Louise with wreaths and we left her." She paused again.
"Well?" he prompted.
"I went home at the end of that week. Elsbeth sent me to bed early. I was log-tired all of a sudden. Oh, I was tired! I had hardly slept at all since she died. I'd stayed at Clare's, you know. She's a bad sleeper, too, and it always infects me—and we used to sit up till daylight, forgetting the time, talking. We've always heaps to talk about. Clare's a night-bird. She's always most brilliant about midnight." She smiled reminiscently. "We picnic, you know, in our dressing-gowns. She has a great white bearskin on the hearth. Her fires are piled up, and never go out all night. And I brew coffee—and we talk. It's jolly. I wish you knew Clare. She's an absorbing person."
"You're giving me quite a good idea of her," he said. Then carelessly: "But she must have realised that after such a shock—and the strain——"
"Oh, it was much worse for Clare," she broke in quickly. "Think—her special pupil! She had had such hopes of Louise. And Clare's so terribly sensitive—she was getting it on her mind. Do you know, she almost began to think it was her fault, not to have seen what was going on? Once, she was absolutely frantic with depression, poor darling, until I made her understand that, if it was any one's, it must be mine. Of course, when I told her everything, how I'd guessed Louise was pretty miserable, and tried to tell her again and then funked it—well, then she saw. As she said, if I'd only spoken out.... She was very kind—but, of course, I soon felt that she thought I was responsible—indirectly—for the whole thing——" Her voice quavered.