They faced each other in their old places. The curved ends of the shining table were vacant, the Chippendale armchairs were pushed back against the wall, yet the ghosts of Caroline and Sophia, gaily dressed, with dangling earrings, the sparkle of jewels, the movements of their beringed fingers, seemed to be in the room.
“But we shall never forget them,” Henrietta said. “They were persons. Aunt Rose, do you think you and I will go on as they did, until just one of us is left?”
“We could never be like them.”
“No, they were happy.”
“You will be happy again, Henrietta. We shall get used to this silence.”
“But I don’t think either of us is meant to be happy. No, we’re not like them. We’re tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of one another, mightn’t we?”
“I am fond of you.”
“I don’t see how you can be”—Henrietta looked down at the fruit on her plate—“considering what has happened,” she almost whispered.
Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen.
“But how fond are you?” Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose, peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, “I don’t know how you measure.”