And he had decided nothing. Margery, too, moved as usual through the busy routine of after-breakfast, “ordering” food for herself and Stephen and the children and the servants, and promising Cook to get some lard and “speaking to” Mary about the drawing-room carpet, and arranging for the dining-room to be “done out” tomorrow, and conferring with Nurse and telephoning for some fish. She did these things in a kind of dream, hating them more than usual, and now and then she looked out of the window, and wondered what Stephen was doing, and what he was thinking. For she knew that he had not decided. And she would not speak to him; she had said her say, and some instinct told her that silence now was her best hope.