'Mrs. Calverley wishes to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as possible.'
'Yes,' said Pauline in reply, 'I will go to Mrs. Calverley at once.'
Past the range of hat-pegs, where the dead man's coats and hats still hung; past the little study, through the open door of which she saw a row of his boots standing in order against the wall, his umbrella and walking-stick in the corner, his folded gloves and clothes-brush laid out upon the table; up the heavily-carpeted stairs; past the closed drawing-room door, and on to Mrs. Calverley's bedroom, at the door of which she knocked. Bidden to come in, Pauline entered, and found the widow seated prim and upright, in a high-backed chair, before the fire.
'This is sad news, my dear friend,' commenced Pauline, in a sympathetic voice; 'this is a frightful calamity.'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly, 'it is very hard upon me, but not more than I have always expected. Mr. Calverley chose never to live in his own home, and he has finished by dying out of it.'
'I have heard no particulars,' said Pauline. 'Where did the sad event take place?'
'Mr. Calverley was found dead in a railway carriage, as he was returning from those ironworks,' said the widow, with vicious emphasis on the last word. 'He entered into that speculation against my will, and he has now reaped the reward of his own obstinacy.'
Pauline looked at her curiously. The dread event which had occurred had not softened Mrs. Calverley in the slightest degree.
'This is very, very sad,' said Pauline, after a pause. 'If I were to consult my own feelings, I should withdraw, and leave you to your overwhelming grief, which no attention can solace, and which must run its course; and yet I cannot bear to think of you alone and unaided. What would you wish me to do?'
'You had much better stay,' said Mrs. Calverley, shortly. 'I feel myself quite unequal to anything, and there is a great deal to be done.'