'I do not see,' she expostulated frankly, 'what harm there can be in calling in the aid of an old friend.'
'I would rather work alone!' was Brenda's soft reply.
And in those two casual remarks there lay hidden from the gaze of blinder mortals the story of two lives.
CHAPTER III.
ALICE RETURNS.
In her pleasant room on the second-floor of Suffolk Mansions, Mrs. Wylie awaited the arrival of the two sisters.
From without there came a suggestion of bustling life in the continuous hum of wheel-traffic and an occasional cry, not unmelodious, from enterprising news-vendors. Within, everything spoke of peaceful, pleasant comfort. There was a large table in the centre of the room literally covered with periodical and permanent literature—a pleasant table to sit by, for there was invariably something of interest lying upon it, a safe stimulant to conversation. The dullest and shyest man could always find something to say to the ready listener who sat in a low cane-chair just beyond the table, near the fire, with her back to the window. There were many strange ornaments about, and a number of curiosities such as women rarely purchase in foreign lands; also sundry small impedimenta suggestive of things nautical.
Withal there was in the very atmosphere a sense of womanliness. The subtle odours emanating from wooden constructions, conceived and executed by dusky strangers, were overpowered by the healthier and livelier smell of flowers. Heliotrope nestled modestly in low vases from Venice. There was also mignonette, and on the mantelpiece a great snowy bunch of Japanese anemones thrust into a bronze vase from that same distant land, all looking, as it were, in different directions, each carrying its graceful head in a different way, no two alike, and yet all lovely, as only God can make things.
I cannot explain in what lay the charm of Mrs. Wylie's drawing-room, though it must have emanated from the lady herself. There is no room like it that I know of, where both men and women experience a sudden feeling of homeliness, an entire sense of refined ease. The surroundings were not too fragile for the touch of a man, and yet there was in them that subtle influence of grace and daintiness which appeals to the more delicate fibres of a woman's soul, and makes her recognise her own element.
The widowed lady herself was little changed since we last met her in the Far North. But those who knew her well were cognizant of the fact that the outward signs of late bereavement so gracefully worn were no cynical demonstration of a conventional grief. The white-haired old man sleeping among the nameless sons of an Arctic land was as truly mourned by this cheerful Englishwoman as ever husband could desire. There was perhaps a smaller show of cultivated grief, such as the world loves to contemplate, than was strictly in keeping with her widow's cap. No lowered tones pulled up a harmless burst of hilarity. No smothered sighs were emitted at inappropriate times in order to impress upon a world, already full enough of sorrow, the presence of an abiding woe.