"Is Miss Warlock at home?" The woman sniffed.
"I expect so," she said. "Most times she is. What name?"
"Mrs. Trenchard," Maggie said.
She was admitted into a hall that smelt of food and seemed in the half-light to be full of umbrellas. The woman went upstairs, but soon returned to say that Miss Warlock would see the lady. Maggie found that in the sitting-room the gas was dimly burning. There was the usual lodging-house furniture, and on a faded red sofa near the fire old Mrs. Warlock was lying. Maggie could not see her very clearly in the half-light, but there was something about her immobility and the stiffness of her head (decorated as of old with its frilly white cap) that reminded one of a figure made out of wax. Maggie turned to find Amy Warlock standing close to her.
"Mrs. Thurston—" Maggie began, hesitating.
"You may not know," said Amy Warlock, "that I have retained my maiden name. Sit down, won't you? It is good of you to have come."
The voice was a little more genial than it had been in the old days. Nevertheless this was still the old Amy Warlock, stiff, masculine, impenetrable.
"I hope your aunt is better," she said.
"My aunt is dead," answered Maggie.
"Dear me, I'm sorry to hear that. She was a good woman and did many kind actions in her time."