Her voice strayed through the empty room. The face of the portrait stared out remorselessly at her with its cynical smile. All the world had become cynical and remorseless. Lady Dashwood moved to the door and went into the corridor. She passed Gwen's room and went to May Dashwood's. There she knocked on the door. May's voice responded. She had already begun to dress.
"Aunt Lena!" she exclaimed softly, as Lady Dashwood closed the door behind her without a word and came forward to the fireplace, "what has happened?"
Lady Dashwood held towards her a letter. "Read that," she said, and then she turned to the fire and leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and clasped her hot brow in her hands. She did not look at the tall slight figure with its aureole of auburn hair near her, and the serious sweet face reading the letter. What she was waiting for was—help—help in her dire need—help! She wanted May to say, "This can't be, must not be. I can help you"; and yet, as the silence grew, Lady Dashwood knew that there was no help coming—it was absurd to expect help.
May Dashwood stood quite still and read the letter through. She read it twice, and yet said nothing.
"Well!" said Lady Dashwood, her voice muffled. As no reply came, she glanced round. "You have read the letter?" she asked.
"Yes," said May, "I've read it," and she laid the letter on the mantelpiece. There was a curious movement of her breathing—as if something checked it; otherwise her face was calm and she showed no emotion.
"What's to be done?" demanded Lady Dashwood.
"Nothing can be done," said May, and she spoke breathlessly.
"Nothing!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "May!"
"Nothing, not if it is his wish," said May Dashwood, and she cleared her throat and moved away.