“She was very tired. I’ve sent her upstairs to lie down.”
This seemed so eminently suitable that Delia made no immediate answer. After an interval she said: “We shall miss her.”
Charlotte’s reply was an inarticulate murmur.
The two cousins remained silent, Charlotte as usual bolt upright, her thin hands clutched on the arms of her old-fashioned rush-bottomed seat, Delia somewhat heavily sunk into the depths of a high-backed armchair. The two had exchanged their last remarks on the preparations for the morrow; nothing more remained to be said as to the number of guests, the brewing of the punch, the arrangements for the robing of the clergy, and the disposal of the presents in the best spare-room.
Only one subject had not yet been touched upon, and Delia, as she watched her cousin’s profile grimly cut upon the melting twilight, waited for Charlotte to speak. But Charlotte remained silent.
“I have been thinking,” Delia at length began, a slight tremor in her voice, “that I ought presently—”
She fancied she saw Charlotte’s hands tighten on the knobs of the chair-arms.
“You ought presently—?”
“Well, before Tina goes to bed, perhaps go up for a few minutes—”