Grace was not an imaginative woman, but she turned it rather neatly,
as she told Howard later.

"It was such a nice baby," she said, feeling for an idea. "I think
probably God was lonely without it, and sent an angel for it again."

"But it is still upstairs," Lily had insisted. She had had a
curious instinct for truth, even then. But there Grace's
imagination had failed her, and she sent for Mademoiselle.
Mademoiselle was a good Catholic, and very clear in her own mind,
but what she left in Lily's brain was a confused conviction that
every person was two persons, a body and a soul. Death was simply
a split-up, then. One part of you, the part that bathed every
morning and had its toe-nails cut, and went to dancing school in
a white frock and thin black silk stockings and carriage boots over
pumps, that part was buried and would only came up again at the
Resurrection. But the other part was all the time very happy, and
mostly singing.

Lily did not like to sing.

Then there was the matter of tears. People only cried when they
hurt themselves. She had been told that again and again when she
threatened tears over her music lesson. But when Aunt Elinor had
gone away she had found Mademoiselle, the deadly antagonist of
tears, weeping. And here again Grace remembered the child's wide,
insistent eyes.

"Why?"