Aunt Hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the family energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were drawn; and she, too, had wept at first, but quietly, without visible effect.  Her guiding principle, the conservation of energy, did not abandon her in sorrow.  She sat, slim, motionless, studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap of her black silk dress.  They would want to rouse her into doing something, no doubt.  As if there were any good in that!  Doing something would not bring back Ann!  Why worry her?

Five o’clock brought three of the brothers, Jolyon and James and Swithin; Nicholas was at Yarmouth, and Roger had a bad attack of gout.  Mrs. Hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, after seeing Ann, had gone away, leaving a message for Timothy—­which was kept from him—­that she ought to have been told sooner.  In fact, there was a feeling amongst them all that they ought to have been told sooner, as though they had missed something; and James said: 

“I knew how it’d be; I told you she wouldn’t last through the summer.”

Aunt Hester made no reply; it was nearly October, but what was the good of arguing; some people were never satisfied.

She sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there.  Mrs. Small came down at once.  She had bathed her face, which was still swollen, and though she looked severely at Swithin’s trousers, for they were of light blue—­he had come straight from the club, where the news had reached him—­she wore a more cheerful expression than usual, the instinct for doing the wrong thing being even now too strong for her.

Presently all five went up to look at the body.  Under the pure white sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more than ever, Aunt Ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, her spine and head rested flat, with the semblance of their life-long inflexibility; the coif banding the top of her brow was drawn on either side to the level of the ears, and between it and the sheet her face, almost as white, was turned with closed eyes to the faces of her brothers and sisters.  In its extraordinary peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now under the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin—­square jaw and chin, cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose—­the fortress of an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, and in its upward sightlessness seemed trying to regain that spirit, to regain the guardianship it had just laid down.

Swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the sight, he said afterwards, made him very queer.  He went downstairs shaking the whole house, and, seizing his hat, clambered into his brougham, without giving any directions to the coachman.  He was driven home, and all the evening sat in his chair without moving.

He could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an imperial pint of champagne....