But in a vague, anxious way she felt for her
mother; and if Lady Coryston had spoken Marcia would have responded.
And Lady Coryston would have liked to speak, first of all to scold Marcia
for forgetting her message, and then to confide in her--insignificant as
the daughter's part in the mother's real life and thoughts had always been.
But she felt physically incapable of bearing the emotion which might spring
out upon her from such a conversation. It was as though she possessed--and
knew she possessed--a certain measured strength; just enough--and no
more--to enable her to go through a conversation which _must_ be
faced. She had better not waste it beforehand. Sometimes it occurred to
her that her feeling toward this coming interview was wholly morbid and
unnatural. How many worse things had she faced in her time!
But reasoning on it did not help her--only silence and endurance. After
resting a little in the drawing-room she went up to her sitting-room again,
refusing Marcia's company.
"Won't you let me come and make you comfortable?--if you're going to rest,
you'll want a shawl and some pillows," said the girl, as she stood at the
foot of the staircase, wistfully looking after her.
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