“I’ve been to the house,” Mrs. Fletcher reported with a tinge of triumph.

“Is he conscious at all?” Annie asked.

“Only a minute now and then,” replied Helen Sears.

“It’s a disgrace, the way he’s neglected it. Some of those fine old pieces.”

“The sleigh bed is mine,” Annie said sharply, coldly.

“Well! I’m not one to claim what isn’t mine.”

“We shouldn’t talk this way,” Annie said, thinking of her visit to the antique dealer, the haste with which she herself had sought some profit before the old man was dead. Suddenly sickened by Mrs. Fletcher, by herself, by Helen Sears’s unlined but aging maiden’s face, she said, “Although I shouldn’t pretend anything. I went to an antique man in Nyack to see if he’d buy the bed. I’m going to sail for England on March fourth, and I simply didn’t know what to do about it.” She looked apologetically at Mrs. Fletcher’s black felt hat.

“Yes, the bed…” Mrs. Fletcher said speculatively. “I thought that was a valuable article. What did he offer?”

“He said he’d see. Maybe a hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Well, you won’t be able to get it until the will is probated, you know, and by then—” She shook suddenly with powdery laughter. “Why, you’ll be in fresh green fields!”

Helen Sears picked up a pencil and looked at it closely.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mrs. Fletcher, recovering her poise at once. “I’ll give you the money. Then you can leave the whole thing in my hands. Won’t that be helpful?” She turned to Helen.

“In times like this,” she said, “one must be helpful.”

Helen Sears allowed herself a small venomous smile. She dropped the pencil. “Well, if you ladies have finished your business—”

“Can I see him?” Annie asked.

“Of course you can see him.”

Mrs. Fletcher cleared the interior of her pale, thickly powdered throat. “I’ve seen him. I can’t say he saw me. It’s a vile disease. I’ll wait here for you, Annie. We’ll finish up the matter of the bed after you’ve made your visit. Please try to understand that Vernon and I will be left with all the details—you understand? Unpleasant details that younger folk leave to us older folk.”

In the corridor, Annie walked silently next to Helen Sears, whose hands were clasped in front of her. “It’s always like this,” she said. “With the relatives. I’m used to it. You needn’t feel bad. It’s not disease that’s vile. It’s families.”

“I feel awful about the bed. But—”

“No, no. Don’t explain. You’re on your way. It’s the natural thing. Mrs. Fletcher isn’t as bad as she behaves. Everybody is scared of death.”

Surprised by such magnanimity, Annie touched Helen’s arm and said thanks.

“I still have a human feeling or two,” Helen said without emphasis.