Kate was there, trying to work off a bad headache with a complicated piece of embroidery and a conversation with Mr.
Reginald Stanford.

That gentleman sat on an ottoman at her feet, sorting silks, and beads, and Berlin wool, and Rose was above casting even a glance at them.

Captain Danton, Sir Ronald, and the Doctor were playing billiards at the other end of the rambling old house.

And upstairs poor Agnes Darling tossed feverishly on her hot pillow, and moaned, and slept fitfully, and murmured a name in her troubled sleep, and Grace watching her, and listening, heard the name "Harry." Some of the gloom of the wretched day seemed to play on Rose's spirits.
She sang all the melancholy songs she knew, in a mournful, minor key, until the conversation of the other two ceased, and they felt as dismal as herself.
"Rose, don't!" Kate cried out in desperation at length.

"Your songs are enough to give one the horrors.