"Yes, it was. The very next day the world seemed somehow to change."
"Isn't that a way the world has?" asked Jacqueline. "Change and change and change again—"
"Yes," answered Unity, "but never to the same, never to the same again—"
A silence fell in the room that was all flowered chintz. Unity, raising her eyes to the glass, saw within it her cousin where she leaned against a chair—saw the face, the eyes, the lips—saw the mask off. Unity gasped, wheeled, ran to the chair, and, falling on her knees beside it, clasped her cousin in her arms. "O Jacqueline! O Jacqueline, Jacqueline!"
Jacqueline rested her hands upon the other's shoulders. "Why did you come to-day, Unity? The last time was December."
"I came—I came"—sobbed Unity, "just to bring you their love—Uncle Dick's and Uncle Edward's and Aunt Nancy's—and to say that Fontenoy is still home, and—and—"
"Yes," said Jacqueline. "But this is my home now, Unity. It has been"—she raised her arms—"it has been my home for many and many a day! You may tell them that; you may tell it to Fairfax Cary."
"Don't—don't think of him as an enemy!"
"I think of him as he is. What is the message, Unity?"
"I have none—I have none," cried Unity, "except that whatever happens—whatever happens, Jacqueline, you are the darling of us all—of the old home and Uncle Dick and Uncle Edward and Aunt Nancy and Deb and me and all the servants! There is none at Fontenoy that does not love and honour you! Think of us, and come to us—"