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 footsteps muffled among the woolliness of many rugs. There was a blot of yellow light from a candle on the writing-table. Mrs. Tottenham stood beside the bed, staring at two sheets of close-written paper and an envelope, which she held out fan-wise between rigid fingers, as one holding a hand at cards.

"Did—has my husband taken his mail yet? Did he overlook the letters?"

"I think Mr. Tottenham's post is still lying on the hall table. Is there anything you want to show him?" They had all their correspondence in common; it was quite impersonal.

"No, no, Lydia, shut the door, please. Is tea up? It is draughty: I should have liked a fire. You might get the things out of my dressing-bag—there, it's over on the sofa."

This constant attendance was to begin again. Lydia was well schooled to it; why had she forgotten?

She unpacked the combs and brushes, and Mrs. Tottenham fidgeted before the glass.

"Light the gas, please. I hate this half-light!" There was resentment in her glance