"It is not Irene. It is I, Rosamund Cunliffe. I want most particularly to see you, Miss Frost."
Whereupon Miss Frost was heard getting out of bed and coming towards the door. She was a very cadaverous-looking person, about forty years of age, thin to emaciation, with small, light, frightened-looking eyes, a long upper lip, and a great many freckles on her face. Her hair was thin and dark, and was strained back from a lofty forehead. The moment Rosamund saw her she took her hand.
"Please don't keep the door locked," she said. "And please unbar the shutters and draw up the blinds, for it is a lovely summer's day, and Irene won't do you any harm. I want to talk to you. May I?"
"I don't believe, my dear young friend," said Miss Frost, "that I am long for this world. I feel those dreadful things even now creeping up and down. The doctor says they are dead; but how can he look inside me? I know they are alive. I know they are."
"I don't think they could be alive," said Rosamund. "I heard of that trick being played on some one once before, and nothing whatever happened, and I can assure you the person is quite well, and when the fright was got over the whole thing was forgotten."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Oh, I have lived through such a morning of agony!"
"You must forget your agony now."
"But how am I to endure that child?"