'No, no, I am not mistaken! She hates me, and I cannot bear her. It is she
who is making me ill.'

'Hate you! Why should she hate you?'

Emily did not reply. Hubert watched her, noticing the pallor of her cheek,
so entirely white and blue, hardly a touch of warm colour anywhere, even in
the shadow of the heavy hair.

'I would give anything to see you friends again.'

'That is impossible! I can never be friends with Julia as I once was. She
has---- No, never can we be friends again. But why do you always take her
part against me? That is what grieves me most. If only you thought----'

'Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.'

The conversation fell. The girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across
the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem
of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. Hubert sat by her on a low
chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now
and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness. The
wind whined about the windows. Then, speaking as if out of a dream, Emily
said--

'Julia and I can never be friends again--that is impossible.'

'But what has she done?' Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as
soon as he had uttered them.