She had been writing. Some sheets of manuscript lay under the chair where she had thrust them out of Sophy's sight. She had heard the imperious trump of the motor-car, sounding her doom as it swung on to the Heath.
Sophy looked at her sister-in-law and said to herself that, really, Henry did exaggerate. She could see nothing in the least abnormal about Jane. Jane, when you took her the right way, was just like anybody else.
Gertrude was out. She had gone over to Roehampton to see Frances. Sophy judged the hour propitious.
"It works," said Jane in answer to her question; "it works beautifully. You don't know, Sophy, what a hand that woman has. Just go indoors and look about you. You can see it working."
"I couldn't stand another woman's hand in my house," said Sophy, "however beautifully it worked."
"Is it my house? In a sense it's hers. There's no doubt that she made it about as perfect as a house could be. It was like a beautiful machine that she had invented and kept going. Nobody but Gertrude could have kept it going like that. It was her thing and she loved it."
Sophy's face betrayed her demure understanding of Gertrude's love.
"Gertrude," said Jane, "couldn't do my work, and it's been demonstrated that I can't do hers. I don't believe in turning people out of their heaven-appointed places and setting them down to each other's jobs."
"If you could convince me that Gertrude's heaven-appointed place is in your husband's house——"
"She's proved it."