"Miss Rand—I think it only right to say. I'm afraid one cannot—in the nature of things—it's impossible, I fear, to expect—my mother to live very much longer." Her voice caught in a dry strangled cough. "Dr. Christopher has warned us. After my mother's death my life, of course, will be very different. I shall live very quietly—a good deal in the country and abroad, I expect.
"I shall not, of course, have a secretary."
"I quite understand," said Lizzie quietly.
"I want you to know, Miss Rand," Lady Adela continued, "that although during all these years I have seemed very unappreciative.... It is not my way—I find it difficult to express—But I have, nevertheless, been very conscious—we have all been—of the things that you have done for me, indeed for the whole house. You have been admirable; quite admirable."
"I have been very happy here," said Lizzie.
"I am very glad of that. I must have seemed often very blind to all that you were doing. But I should like you to know that it is more—it is more—than simply your duty to the house—it is the many things that you have done personally for me. You have not yourself been, I dare say, aware of the effect that your company has had upon me. It has been very great."
Lizzie smiled. "I've loved the house and the work. It has meant a very important part of my life. I shall never forget it."
Their embarrassment was terrible. After a moment of struggle Lady Adela's voice was hard and unconcerned again. "You know, Miss Rand, that—when the time comes for this change—anything that I, or any of us, can do ... I do not know what your own plans may be, but you need have no fear, I think."
"Thank you very much, Lady Adela. That is very kind."
There was a little pause—then they said good night.