its stead.
And then she said, ''Selina, and Aurora. How well they look! They look like
angels'' names—don''t they?''
The ward seemed all at once terribly quiet. I heard the slam of a gate in some
distant passage, and the shrieking of a bolt, and then I thought I caught the sound
of sand crunched beneath a prison heel, much nearer. Awkwardly, feeling her
fingers hard against my own, I took the pen from her. I said, ''I''m afraid I have
wearied you.''
''Oh, no.''
''Yes, I think so.'' I rose, and went fearfully to the gate. The corridor beyond was
empty. I called, ''Mrs Jelf!'', and heard an answering cry—''One moment,
miss!''—from some far cell. Then I turned and—since there was no-one, after all,
to overhear or to see—I held out my hand. ''Good-bye then, Selina.''
Again came her fingers in mine, and she smiled. ''Goodbye, Aurora''—she
whispered it into the cold air of the cell, so that for one long second the word hung
white as gauze before her lips. I drew away my hand and made to turn towards the
gate; and then it seemed to me that her look again lost a little of its artlessness.
I said, Why did she do that?
''Do what, Aurora?''
Why did she smile, in that secret way?
''Do I smile, in a secret way?''
''You know you do. What is it?''
She seemed to hesitate. Then she said, ''It is only that you are so very proud.