Mary remained silent.

“Well, I must go,” said Deb, jumping up, as if washing her hands of a disappointing job.  “The carriage must be there, and Bob will be starving for his dinner.  No use asking you to join us, I know.  But you must come to Redford soon, Molly—­or somewhere out of this—­when you feel better and able.  You shall have rooms entirely to yourself, and needn’t see anybody.  I will come tomorrow, and you must let me talk to you about it.”

Mrs Goldsworthy was stooping to sweep a sprinkle of ashes out of the fender—­she was like an old maid in her faddy tidiness—­and when she turned, her face was working as if to repress tears.  Deb caught her up, a moan bursting from her lips.

“Oh, what a brute I am! when you—­poor, poor old girl!—­have to finish it alone.  But, darling, after all, you have had the good years—­ a child of your own—­a home; we shall get only the dregs at the bottom of the cup.  So it is not so very unfair, is it?” Then Mary’s pent emotion issued in a laugh.  With her face on her sister’s shoulder, she tried herself to silence it.

“I can’t help it,” she apologised.  “I would if I could.  Debbie, don’t go!  Oh, my dear, don’t think I envy you!  Don’t go yet!  I want to tell you something.  I may never have another chance.”  “Of course I won’t go —­I want to stay,” said Deb at once.

And she stayed.  The coachman was dismissed to get his meal, and instructed to telephone to Bob to do the same.  The sisters had a little picnic dinner by themselves, washing up their plates and dishes in the neat kitchen, Deb insisting upon taking part in the performance, and sat long by the fireside afterwards.  Fortunately, although the season was late spring, it was a cold day; for the clear red fire was the one bit of brightness to charm a visitor to that poor house.  It crackled cosily, toasting their toes outstretched upon the fender-bar, melting their mood to such glowing confidences as they had not exchanged since Mary was in her teens.  No lamps were lighted.  The widow was frugal with gas when eyes were idle; her extravagant sister loved firelight to talk in.

But for a while it seemed that Mary had nothing particular to communicate.  Deb did not like to put direct questions, but again and again led the conversation in the likely direction, to find Mary avoiding it like a shying horse.  She would not talk of her husband, but interested herself for an hour in the subject of Guthrie Carey, Guthrie’s wife, his child, his home, discussing the matter with a calmness that made Deb forget how delicate a one it was.  Then Mary had a hundred questions to ask (probably on Bob’s account) about the Countess, of whom she had known nothing of late years, while Deb had learned something from time to time, and could give an approximately true tale.  Quite another hour was taken up with Francie’s wrongs and wrong-doings, as to which Deb was more frank with this sister than she would have been with Rose.