Another day comes to replace the wretchedness of this. Lauraine rises white and calm from her bed, and still dry-eyed and tearless, takes up life with its new burden of sorrow. Arrangements, orders, all devolve upon her. No word has come from Sir Francis, but a telegram announces that her mother will be there that night. Lady Etwynde watches her in the deepest distress. This cold, strange, tearless grief is worse than the most frantic sorrow. It seems to chill all sympathy, to harden her, as it were, against all offers of consolation. When Mrs. Douglas arrives it is just the same. Her reception of her mother is almost cold, and, pleading fatigue as an excuse, she retires to her own rooms, leaving Lady Etwynde to do the entertaining.
Mrs. Douglas, who dislikes Lady Etwynde, grumbles openly at her daughter's strange behaviour.
"So odd, so cold, so unfeeling, as if I could not sympathize with her loss—I, who have lost two children of my own. And to shut herself apart from every one like that, it is positively unnatural."
"It has been an awful shock to her," says Lady Etwynde gravely.
"Of course, of course; but then, such a baby; and she is young, she will have plenty more. But I never knew any one so changed as Lauraine is since she married. She is not a bit like the same girl."
"Marriage does change people, you know," answers Lady Etwynde, looking calmly back at Mrs. Douglas. "And I never thought Lauraine was happy."
"Happy! What in heaven's name does she want? She has everything that could satisfy a woman, I am sure, and it was quite a—a love-match."
"Indeed!" says Lady Etwynde, arching her delicate eyebrows. "On whose side?"
Mrs. Douglas passes by this question loftily. "She is of a cold nature, and utterly different to me. I am sure if she had had to bear all the troubles and worries I have put up with during my life she might talk of unhappiness. Lauraine's unhappiness must be something like a crumpled rose-leaf, I imagine."
Lady Etwynde only looks quietly at her for a moment. "I don't think you quite understand her," she says. "There may be natures that cannot find happiness in position, society, and—diamonds. Of course it is very odd that they should not do so, some sense or faculty must be wanting; but all the same, they do exist."