“I wish you would. When Charles comes again—his father isn’t very well—you had better be present.”
“No, not with Charles,” Henrietta said firmly. “Does he understand wills and things?”
“Perfectly, I think. He’s very clever and quite interesting.”
“Oh!” Henrietta said.
“I’m glad he’s coming again. And now, Henrietta,” she sighed, “we must get ready for the cousins.”
The female relatives returned in dingy cabs. They had not yet laid aside their black and beads for Caroline, and, as though they thought Sophia had been unfairly cheated of new mourning, they had adorned themselves with a fresh black ribbon here and there, or a larger brooch of jet, and these additions gave to the older garments a rusty look, a sort of blush.
Across these half-animated heaps of woe and dye, the glances of Rose and Henrietta met in an understanding pleasing to both. This mourning had a professional, almost a rapacious quality, and if these women had no hope of material pickings, they were getting all possible nourishment from emotional ones. Their eyes, very sharp, but veiled by seemly gloom, criticized the slim, upright figures of these young women who could wear black gracefully, sorrow with dignity, and who had, as they insisted, so much the look of sisters.
The air seemed freer for their departure, but the house was very empty, and though Sophia had never made much noise the place was heavy with a final silence.
“I don’t know why we’re here!” Henrietta cried passionately across the dinner-table when Susan had left the ladies to their dessert.
“Why were we ever here?” Rose asked. “If one could answer that question—”