Her sister Kate came in. She had been spending the day with friends in another part of London. When just within the door she stopped and looked at the body nervously.
‘Emma!’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come downstairs? Mrs. Lake’ll let us have her back room, and tea’s waiting for you. I wonder how you can stay here.’
‘I can’t come. I want to be alone, Kate. Tell them not to come up.’
‘But you can’t stay here all night, child!’
‘I can’t talk. I want to be alone. Perhaps I’ll come down before long.’
Kate withdrew and went to gossip with the people who were incessantly coming and going in the lower part of the house. The opening and shutting of the front door, the sound of voices, the hurrying feet upon the staircase, were audible enough to Emma. She heard, too, the crowds that kept passing along the street, their shouts, their laughter, the voices of the policemen bidding them move on. It was all a nightmare, from which she strove to awake.
At length she was able to weep. Gazing constantly at the dead face, she linked it at last with some far-off memory of tenderness, and that brought her tears. She held the cold hand against her heart and eased herself with passionate sobbing, with low wails, with loving utterance of his name. Thus it happened that she did not hear when someone knocked lightly at the door and entered. A shadow across the still features told her of another’s presence. Starting back, she saw a lady from whose pale, beautiful face a veil had just been raised. The stranger, who was regarding her with tenderly compassionate eyes, said:
‘I am Mrs. Mutimer.’
Emma rose to her feet and drew a little apart. Her face fell.
‘They told me downstairs,’ Adela pursued, ‘that I should find Miss Vine in the room. Is your name Emma Vine?’