In any case I should like to see her again." "She does not see many people nowadays," said Cicely; "I fancy she is breaking up rather.

She was very fond of the son who went down, you know." "She has seen a great many of the things she cared for go down," said Yeovil; "it is a sad old life that is left to her, when one thinks of all that the past has been to her, of the part she used to play in the world, the work she used to get through.

It used to seem as though she could never grow old, as if she would die standing up, with some unfinished command on her lips.

And now I suppose her tragedy is that she has grown old, bitterly old, and cannot die." Cicely was silent for a moment, and seemed about to leave the room.

Then she turned back and said: "I don't think I would say anything about Gorla to her if I were you." "It would not have occurred to me to drag her name into our conversation," said Yeovil coldly, "but in any case the accounts of her dancing performance will have reached Torywood through the newspapers--also the record of your racially-blended supper-party." Cicely said nothing.