“About——?” asked Miss Amory.
“About Margery,” her voice lowering unconsciously.
“How much did you know?” Miss Amory asked again.
“Nothin’,” rather sullenly, “but that she was ill—an’ went away an’ died.”
“In Italy, they say,” put in Miss Amory—“lying on a sofa before an open window—on a lovely day, when the sun was setting.”
Susan Chapman started a little, and her face changed. The unresponsiveness melted away. There was something like a glow of relief in her look. She became human and lost sight of Miss Amory’s supposed grandeur.
“Was it like that?” she exclaimed. “Was it? I’m thankful to you for telling me. Somehow I couldn’t ask properly when I was face to face with her brother. You can’t talk to him. I never knew where—or how—it was. I wanted to find out if—if it was all right with her. I wanted to know she hadn’t suffered.”
“So did I,” Miss Amory answered. “And that was what they told me.”
She passed her withered hand across her face.
“I was fond of her,” she said.