Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie

I brought some.”
    â€œWell, then, that’s all right,” said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out.
    Elinor and Mary were alone together.
    A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly:
    â€œYou—like your work in London?”
    â€œYes, thank you. I—I’m very grateful to you—”
    A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her that Mary stared at her in surprise.
    Elinor said:
    â€œYou needn’t be so grateful!”
    Mary, rather embarrassed, said:
    â€œI didn’t mean—that is—”
    She stopped.
    Elinor was staring at her—a glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it.
    She said:
    â€œIs—is anything wrong?”
    Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away:
    â€œWhat should be wrong?”
    Mary murmured.
    â€œYou—you looked—”
    Elinor said with a little laugh:
    â€œWas I staring? I’m so sorry. I do sometimes—when I’m thinking of something else.”
    Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, “I’ve put the kettle on,” and went out again.
    Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter.
    â€œPolly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on—we’ll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary, when we were children?”
    â€œYes, indeed I do.”
    Elinor said:
    â€œ When we were children … It’s a pity, Mary isn’t it, that one can never go back…?”
    Mary said:
    â€œWould you like to go back?”
    Elinor said with force:
    â€œYes… yes ….”
    Silence fell between them for a little while.
    Then Mary said, her face flushing:
    â€œMiss Elinor, you mustn’t think—”
    She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinor’s slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin.
    Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice:
    â€œWhat mustn’t I think?”
    Mary murmured:
    â€œI—I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.”
    Elinor’s body relaxed—as at a danger past.
    Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown teapot, and milk and three cups.
    She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax:
    â€œHere’s the tea!”
    She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head.
    â€œI won’t have any.”
    She pushed the tray along towards Mary.
    Mary poured out two cups.
    Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction.
    â€œIt’s nice and strong.”
    Elinor got up and moved over to the window. Nurse Hopkins said persuasively:
    â€œAre you sure you won’t have a cup, Miss Carlisle? Do you good.”
    Elinor murmured, “No, thank you.”
    Nurse Hopkins drained her cup, replaced it in the saucer and murmured:
    â€œI’ll just turn off the kettle. I put it on in case we needed to fill up the pot again.”
    She bustled out.
    Elinor wheeled round from the window.
    She said, and her voice was suddenly charged with a desperate appeal:
    â€œMary…”
    Mary Gerrard answered quickly:
    â€œYes?”
    Slowly the light died out of Elinor’s face. The lips closed. The desperate pleading faded and left a mere mask—frozen and still.
    She said:
    â€œNothing.”
    The silence came down heavily on the room.
    Mary thought:
    â€œHow queer everything is today. As though—as though we were waiting for something.”
    Elinor moved at last.
    She came from the window and picked up the tea tray, placing on it the empty sandwich plate.
    Mary jumped up.
    â€œOh, Miss Elinor, let me.”
    Elinor said sharply:
    â€œNo, you stay here. I’ll do this.”
    She carried the tray out of the room. She looked back, once, over her shoulder at Mary Gerrard by the window, young and alive and beautiful….
    IV
    Nurse Hopkins was in the pantry. She was