In these days Launa felt that meditation and thought were unprofitable; she turned to Sylvia for something, not for protection, but for companionship. Sylvia was restless, Launa was restless also; the days were unsatisfactory if one hour were unoccupied. A day of inaction was Launa’s present idea of torment. Sylvia and she agreed on this subject.
One night Launa had come in very tired; too tired to eat. She drank some chocolate, and sat in the music-room.
Mr. Wainbridge appeared. It was late, and he had been at his uncle’s. The room was full of poppies; the heavy odour was oppressive, and the flowers were falling—slowly, slowly they tumbled down every few minutes.
“They are the ghosts of the past,” said Launa at last, as one or two flowers fell simultaneously, and yet as it were with reluctance. “Do you hear the slow sound they make as they fall? I am very tired.”
“Your tea-gown is like moonlight, and you look divine.”
“And unearthly? I would rather be human.”
“You are lovely.”
“Tell me something new,” she replied, with a laugh of confidence, and a look—“something that I do not already know.”
“What have you been doing to-day?” he asked, feeling the commonplace safe.
“I went with Sylvia to see a woman who is dying—and yet it is not certain she will die—to die is peace.”