She had never seen herself so nearly pretty, and with this thought in her mind, she went back to her mother, who was still working buttonholes under the chandelier.
"Marthy has brought the lamp, mother.

Why don't you move over to the table ?" "I can see perfectly, thank you, Gabriella." "I hate to see you working.

Let me finish those buttonholes." "I'd rather get through them myself, dear." "Have you seen Jane to-day ?" "No." "Has Cousin Pussy been here ?" "No." "Did you get out for a walk ?" "No." The appalling silence again filled the room like a fog, and Gabriella, moving cautiously about in it, began straightening chairs and picking up shreds of cambric from the carpet.

She felt suddenly that she could not endure the strain for another minute, and glancing at Mrs.Carr's bent head, where the thin hair was wound into a tight knot and held in place by a tortoise-shell comb with a carved top, she wondered how her mother could possibly keep it up day after day as she did?
But, if she had only known it, this silence, which tried her nerves to the breaking point, was positively soothing to her mother.

Mrs.Carr could keep it up not only for days and weeks, but, had it been necessary, she could have kept it up with equal success for half a lifetime.