“No, but you could speak to Aunt Kirsteen; it's for her to stop him.”
One of her most pathetic smiles came over Frances Freeland's face.
“Yes, I could speak to her. But, you see, I don't count for anything. One doesn't when one gets old.”
“Oh, Granny, you do! You count for a lot; every one admires you so. You always seem to have something that—that other people haven't got. And you're not a bit old in spirit.”
Frances Freeland was fingering her rings; she slipped one off.
“Well,” she said, “it's no good thinking about that, is it? I've wanted to give you this for ages, darling; it IS so uncomfortable on my finger. Now, just let me see if I can pop it on!”
Nedda recoiled.
“Oh, Granny!” she said. “You ARE—!” and vanished.
There was still no one in the kitchen, and she sat down to wait for her aunt to finish her up-stairs duties.
Kirsteen came down at last, in her inevitable blue dress, betraying her surprise at this sudden appearance of her niece only by a little quivering of her brows. And, trembling with nervousness, Nedda took her plunge, pouring out the whole story—of Derek's letter; their journey down; her father's talk with him; the visit to Tryst's body; their walk by the river; and of how haunted and miserable he was. Showing the little note he had left that morning, she clasped her hands and said: