“I’ve come back,” she said quietly. “I’ll stay now, if you want me—if you’ll take me.” She made no gesture, her expression did not change. There was fixed calmness about her as hard as adamant.

“What has happened, Laurel?”

“I’ve been put out. I’ve no other place to go but here. If you don’t want me—if—”

“You know we want you!” exclaimed Helen. “Dear child! Come. Sit down. You’re tired. You’ve had a long journey. Why, you haven’t even taken off your hat.”

Laurel remarked, not moving, making no sign of response, “Mother has married,” and after a pause, “Mother has married.” It was like the wailing of a tolling bell.

Stephen said, “Oh!”

Helen said, “I shall take off your hat myself.” And quickly, deftly, she removed the small toque and laid it aside on a table, Laurel standing listless and indifferent beneath her administrating hands. “There! That’s better. Why, you must have been waiting a long time,” she went on lightly. “You ought to have telephoned when you reached New York.”

“She’s married Alfred Munn, Father,” said Laurel to Stephen, and after a pause again, “She’s married Alfred Munn,” as if the tolling bell had changed its note.

Helen touched Laurel gently on her shoulder. “Come upstairs to your room now,” she said. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. I’m going to give you some food and put you to bed now.”

“Father, you knew him. You couldn’t stand him either. I understand now. I see. Of course you couldn’t live with her. I couldn’t live with her myself.”

“Don’t take it so hard, Lollie,” said Stephen.

“Don’t call me Lollie!”

“Don’t suffer so, Dear.”

“I’m not suffering. I’m not suffering at all.”

“Will you bring up Laurel’s suitcase, Stephen?” asked Helen. “Come, Laurel.” She slipped a steadying arm through Laurel’s. “You must go to bed now.”

5

THEY MOUNTED TOGETHER to the lavender-tinted room, which Helen had told Stella last summer would be Laurel’s. (“She’ll be sleeping in that, I suppose,” Stella had remarked, from the threshold of the room, as she had gazed upon the bed, fresh and crisp with muslin valance and canopy. “I’ll be thinking of her in that,” and she had wiped her eyes.) Helen recalled the scene, the voice, the tears, as now she set about preparing with her own hands the waiting bed for that absent woman’s child.

Behind her Laurel was standing, here, as downstairs, impassive and indifferent, just where Helen had left her when she withdrew her arm that had guided her hither.

“Come. We’ll undress now.”