Esther Field came into the room with Lady Castleton just as Miss Silver enquired,

“Who is Irene?”

There was one of those silences which bring it home to even the most dull-witted person that something of an unfortunate nature has been said. In this case quite obviously it was the name pronounced by Miss Silver. Seeing no reason to check herself, she had not done so, and Lady Castleton, coming in first, had reached the middle of the room before the sentence was complete.

“Who is Irene?”

Miss Silver’s enunciation, always very clear, seemed especially so on this occasion. Had Lady Castleton been nearer the door, had there been any possibility of ignoring what had been said, it is likely enough that she would have done so, but she was so near, so much exposed to the direct impact of the name-She paused for a moment, tall and graceful in her black dress, and said with perfect dignity of voice and manner,

“I think Mrs. Trevor may have been speaking of my sister who died ten years ago.” And having spoken, she passed on to join Esther Field where the long windows stood open to the terrace.

Maisie Trevor showed signs of confusion. She said, “We were all so fond of her,” and began to talk about something else. But no sooner had Adela Castleton and Esther Field stepped across the threshold and moved slowly out of sight than Miss Silver, usually so full of tact, returned to the subject. Leaning a little nearer, she said,

“I hope I did not embarrass Lady Castleton just now.”

Mrs. Trevor bridled.

“It’s not easy to embarrass Adela-in fact I shouldn’t think it could be done. She just puts on her grand manner and sails past you like she did just now.”

Miss Silver paused to contemplate the tiny frill of pink which had begun to show upon her needles. Then she said,

“It is sometimes quite startling to hear the name of someone very near and dear when one is not expecting to do so. I should be sorry to think that I had inadvertently revived a painful memory.”

Maisie Trevor dropped her voice.

“Well, of course it was a dreadful tragedy. She was so young, and really more beautiful, I think, than Adela-softer, you know, and not so dreadfully good at everything.”

“And she died? How extremely sad.”

“She was drowned. She must have swum out too far. They said it was a cramp.”

Miss Silver was never quite sure whether there was any stress upon the said. If so, it was of the slightest.

Mrs. Trevor’s tongue ran on. Cramp was such a horrid thing. But perhaps they had better not talk about it in case Lady Castleton came back. She really had been devoted to Irene. “No children of her own, you know-and some women seem to mind about that so much, though I really don’t quite see why, and I don’t know that Adela did. Tom and I never had any, and I’ve never minded in the least. Babies are so messy, and when they grow up they date you dreadfully. And then look at how some of them turn out! All these divorces, and boys getting mixed up with the most dreadful sorts of politics, or writing the sort of poetry that means they don’t wash or shave! Well, I shouldn’t have liked it at all-I really shouldn’t!”

Miss Silver agreeing that some of these modern trends were indeed to be depreciated, they were able to have a very comfortable talk upon the subject.

Pippa Maybury came down in a scarlet dress with so little top to it that it really might hardly have been there at all. She was made up after a rather startling fashion too, with a good deal of eye-shadow and mascara, skin of an even pallor, lipstick that matched her dress, and scarlet finger nails. Carmona, overtaking her in the hall, made a sound of dismay.

“Pippa!”

“I know, I know-‘Darling, do go up and put on something nice and quiet and dowdy’! And I’m not going to-not for you or for anyone! If I’m going to be plunged into a prison cell tomorrow, I’m going to have a good last kick tonight- so there!”

James Hardwick came up behind her. Pippa blew him a kiss and ran on. His eyebrows rose as he looked at Carmona.

“Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die?”

Carmona’s eyes were full of tears. She said,

“Yes. James, where is Bill? She wants to keep him out of it, and she can’t. He ought to be here.”

He nodded.

“Come along-we should go in.”

“James, if they arrest her-”

“I don’t think they will.”

“I can’t think why they don’t.”

“Perhaps because she really didn’t do it.”

She had a sudden startled feeling.

“Why did you say that?”

He said, “Second sight!” and walked away from her into the drawing-room.

Miss Silver found it a very interesting evening. Of those present at least three were the objects of her particular attention. She did not talk much, but she listened a good deal, and her needles were busy. When after dinner Lady Castleton laid out her usual game of patience, she moved her chair close up to the table and became a most interested spectator. Her murmured deprecatory “I hope you do not mind” being dismissed with a brief “Oh, no,” she did not speak again. There was the occasional click of a needle, and the pink bootee began to take shape.

Adela Castleton sat there in her filmy black, leaning a little forward over the red and black and white of the cards, her beautiful hand with its ruby ring poised above them, laying down a King here, picking up a Queen, moving diamond and heart, club and spade, bent on the game and ordering it with skill.

Colonel Trevor was reading the Times. He never did anything else in the evenings except on the rare occasions when he was dragged into a game of Bridge. Sometimes he went to sleep behind it, when even Maisie had learned that it was better not to wake him. She was herself engaged in turning over the pages of the latest Vogue, exclaiming at the more extravagant styles and picturing herself glamourously arrayed in them with the minute waist, the fabulous height, and the last word in hair-does which they demanded.

Esther had discarded her knitting for some fine embroidery. She was working a large ornamental H upon a set of face-towels for Carmona-the material a fine damask, and the design and stitchery really exquisite. She was one of the women to whom needlework is a relaxation. Her soft brown eyes dwelt upon it with pleasure. Her mood was quiet and at peace.

The three younger members of the party sat together. James Hardwick had a magazine, Pippa a book which she did not read. When she had fluttered through the pages she let it drop and picked up another, and rapidly, intermittently, she talked to Carmona, to James, to Maisie Trevor, to Miss Silver, to Esther Field-questions that did not wait for an answer, irrelevancies about this and that, startling because they disclosed the painful hurry with which her thoughts ran here and there and found no shelter. And all the time she was lighting one cigarette from another until the stubs were piled high upon the formidable ash-tray which Octavius Hardwick had won in a golf tournament round about the turn of the century.

There was a moment when James laid down his magazine and went out upon the terrace. Miss Silver, watching him go, observed that the breeze must be most refreshing.

“Such a wonderful spell of warm weather. I feel that one should make the most of it. Perhaps Major Hardwick will not mind if I join him.”

She might have been addressing herself to Carmona, or to the room in general. Carmona murmured, “Oh, yes, of course,” and the pink knitting, the ball of wool, and the needles were slipped into a flowered chintz bag.

As Miss Silver crossed to the window she glanced back. Carmona and Pippa were looking in her direction. Esther Field had lifted her eyes from her embroidery. Adela Castleton looked down at the pattern of her game. The hand that was poised above it held the ace of spades.