Yet when it came to the point she would not drink the waters.
She said she never had drunk them, and seemed to regard that as a reason why she never should.
Sophia had achieved a miracle in getting her to Buxton for nearly a month, but the ultimate grand effect lacked brilliance.
Then came the fatal letter, the desolating letter, which vindicated Constance's dark apprehensions.
Rose Bennion calmly wrote to say that she had decided not to come to St. Luke's Square.
She expressed regret for any inconvenience which might possibly be caused; she was polite.
But the monstrousness of it!
Constance felt that this actually and truly was the deepest depth of her calamities.
There she was, far from a dirty home, with no servant and no prospect of a servant!
She bore herself bravely, nobly; but she was stricken.
She wanted to return to the dirty home at once.
Sophia felt that the situation created by this letter would demand her highest powers of dealing with situations, and she determined to deal with it adequately.
Great measures were needed, for Constance's health and happiness were at stake.
She alone could act.
She knew that she could not rely upon Cyril.
She still had an immense partiality for Cyril; she thought him the most charming young man she had ever known; she knew him to be industrious and clever; but in his relations with his mother there was a hardness, a touch of callousness.
She explained it vaguely by saying that 'they did not get on well together'; which was strange, considering Constance's sweet affectionateness.
Still, Constance could be a little trying--at times. Anyhow, it was soon clear to Sophia that the idea of mother and son living together in London was entirely impracticable.
No!
If Constance was to be saved from herself, there was no one but Sophia to save her.
After half a morning spent chiefly in listening to Constance's hopeless comments on the monstrous letter, Sophia said suddenly that she must take the dogs for an airing.
Constance did not feel equal to walking out, and she would not drive.
She did not want Sophia to 'venture,' because the sky threatened.
However, Sophia did venture, and she returned a few minutes late for lunch, full of vigour, with two happy dogs.
Constance was moodily awaiting her in the dining-room.
Constance could not eat.
But Sophia ate, and she poured out cheerfulness and energy as from a source inexhaustible.
After lunch it began to rain.
Constance said she thought she should retire directly to the sitting-room.
"I'm coming too," said Sophia, who was still wearing her hat and coat and carried her gloves in her hand.
In the pretentious and banal sitting-room they sat down on either side the fire.
Constance put a little shawl round her shoulders, pushed her spectacles into her grey hair, folded her hands, and sighed an enormous sigh:
"Oh, dear!"
She was the tragic muse, aged, and in black silk.
"I tell you what I've been thinking," said Sophia, folding up her gloves.
"What?" asked Constance, expecting some wonderful solution to come out of Sophia's active brain.
"There's no earthly reason why you should go back to Bursley.
The house won't run away, and it's costing nothing but the rent.
Why not take things easy for a bit?"
"And stay here?" said Constance, with an inflection that enlightened Sophia as to the intensity of her dislike of the existence at the Rutland.
"No, not here," Sophia answered with quick deprecation.
"There are plenty of other places we could go to."
"I don't think I should be easy in my mind," said Constance.
"What with nothing being settled, the house----"
"What does it matter about the house?"
"It matters a great deal," said Constance, seriously, and slightly hurt.
"I didn't leave things as if we were going to be away for a long time.
It wouldn't do."
"I don't see that anything could come to any harm, I really don't!" said Sophia, persuasively.
"Dirt can always be cleaned, after all.