"
"Well, we must make the best of it," Helen replied philosophically. It
was very hot, and they were indifferent to any amount of silence, so
that they lay back in their chairs waiting for something to happen. The
bell rang for luncheon, but there was no sound of movement in the house.
Was there any news? Helen asked; anything in the papers? St. John shook
his head. O yes, he had a letter from home, a letter from his mother,
describing the suicide of the parlour-maid. She was called Susan Jane,
and she came into the kitchen one afternoon, and said that she wanted
cook to keep her money for her; she had twenty pounds in gold. Then she
went out to buy herself a hat. She came in at half-past five and said
that she had taken poison. They had only just time to get her into bed
and call a doctor before she died.
"Well?" Helen enquired.
"There'll have to be an inquest," said St. John.
Why had she done it? He shrugged his shoulders. Why do people kill
themselves? Why do the lower orders do any of the things they do do?
Nobody knows. They sat in silence.
"The bell's run fifteen minutes and they're not down," said Helen at
length.
When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessary for
him to come to luncheon. He imitated Evelyn's enthusiastic tone as she
confronted him in the smoking-room. "She thinks there can be nothing
_quite_ so thrilling as mathematics, so I've lent her a large work in
two volumes.
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