Dressed, Carlisle stood at her window a moment, greeting somewhat sadly the brilliant day.  Her desire was to stop the footless workings of her mind; to go out and do something.  But all that she could think of to do was to return to Baird & Himmel’s emporium and complete that shopping for the Thompson kinsfolk which had been so suddenly interrupted last week.  And, that occupation exhausted, she would go on to Mattie Allen’s, and probably stay there for luncheon.  Tame achievements, but better than staying longer in this room.

Here on the broad window ledge, behind the concealing curtain, there stood a bowl of flowers.  They were violets, dry and discolored now.  The girl’s eyes, just as she was turning away toward her mother, fell upon them, and she stopped, overtaken by memory.  These were Hugo’s flowers, his last gift to her.  She herself had placed them here, that eventful afternoon five days ago, and not thought of them again till this moment....  Was that, which seemed like an echo from some previous life, only five days ago?

She stood looking down at the mass of sere bloom, touched the withered tops lingeringly with her finger-tips.  It was her tribute to the dead, no more.  The departed knight had dropped backward out of her heart with a speed and smoothness which showed that he had, indeed, had small foothold there since May.  Less and less had Cally felt any impulse to judge or blame Hugo, impute “badness” to him; it was she who had changed, and never he.  But how, why?...  ’Was it something done, something said?’ Strange to remember now the hurried journey to the Beach last year, that afternoon in Willie Kerr’s apartment....

“Throw out those flowers in the window, Flora....  They’ve been faded for days.”

She went down the stairs in that inner state which her country had once found unendurable:  she was half slave and half free.  And on the stairs she forgot Hugo entirely.  She was thinking, in her loneliness and depression, of Vivian, who had pledged his help to her; wondering if she could ask him to come and give her his help now,—­at four o’clock this afternoon, perhaps, when the house would be quiet and her mother napping.  Her wish was to talk with him, to show him all her difficulty, before she saw her father.  She felt that she could tell anything to Mr. V.V. now....

Cally tapped respectfully upon a closed door, and said “Mamma?” Bidden to enter by the strong voice within, she braced herself a little, and opened the door....

Mrs. Heth sat toward the bay-window of a spacious bedroom, dignified by an alcove and bright but for the half-drawn shades.  It was observed that she wore her second-best robe de chambre, and was otherwise not dressed for the inspection of the best people.  So indifferently was her fine hair caught up atop her head that the round purplish spot on her temple was left plainly visible:  always an ominous sign....

“Good morning, mamma.  I hope you’re feeling better to-day?”