on her pillow.

Now, sitting in her father's room, with her mother only a few weeks
dead, she reproached herself for her readiness to be deceived, for her
preoccupation with her own affairs and the odious Mr. Jenkins, for the
exuberance of life which hid from her the dwindling of her mother's,
and the fact, now so plain, that when Reginald Mallett died his wife's
capacity for struggling was at an end. She had suffered bitterly from
the sight of his deterioration and from her failure to prevent it. In
his sulky, torturing presence she had desired his absence, but this
permanent absence was more than she could bear. And all Henrietta
could do was to obey her mother's injunction to accept help from her
aunts, but she had refused the offer of an escort to Radstowe and
Nelson Lodge; she would have no highly respectable servant sniffing at
the boarding-house--and she would have been bound to sniff in that
permanently scented atmosphere--which was, after all, her home. She
left with genuine regret, with tears.

'You mustn't cry, dearie,' Mrs. Banks said, holding Henrietta to the
bosom of her greasy dress. 'It's a lucky thing for you.'

'Perhaps,' Henrietta said, 'but I'd rather be with you, and I can't
bear to think of the cooking going to pieces. I'll send you some
recipes for nice dishes.'

'Too many eggs,' Mrs. Banks said prophetically.

'I dare say, but you can manage if you think about it. And remember,
if Miss Stubb has too much cold mutton, she'll lose her job, and then
you'll lose her money. It will pay you to feed her. You haven't had a