Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. She noticed that this trunk was not littered with hotel labels. “Only married a few months ago and lived out at Hampstead. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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