As she passed through the door, a low cry of pain made her start and
hesitate, and she stood still. The degree of her acquaintance with the
members of the family was just such that she would not quite dare to
intrude upon them if they had given way to an expression of pardonable
weakness under their final misfortune, whereas if they were bearing it
with reasonable fortitude she could allow herself to offer her
sympathy and even some judicious help.
She stood still and the sound was repeated, the pitiful little
tearless complaint of a young thing suffering alone. It was somewhere
in the big room, hidden amongst the furniture; which was less stiffly
arranged here than in the outer apartments. There were books and
newspapers on the table, the fireplace was half-full of the ashes of a
burnt-out fire, there were faded flowers in a tall vase near the
window, there was the undefinable presence of life in the heavier and
warmer air. At first the Baroness had thought that the cry came from
some small animal, hurt and forgotten there in the great catastrophe;
a moment later she was sure that there was some one in the room.
She moved cautiously forward in the direction whence the sound had
come. Then she saw the edge of a fawn-coloured cloth skirt on the red
carpet by an armchair. She went on, hesitating no longer.
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