‘I will order your breakfast at once.’

He turned on his heel.  She stopped him.  ’No, I have no taste for eating or drinking.’

‘Pray . . .’ said he, in visible distress.

She shook her head.  ’I could not.  I have twenty minutes longer.  I can find my way to the station; it is almost a straight road out of the park-gates.’

His heart swelled with anger at the household for they treatment she had been subjected to, judging by her resolve not to break bread in the house.

They resumed their silent sitting.  The intervals for a word to pass between them were long, and the ticking of the time-piece fronting the death-bed ruled the chamber, scarcely varied.

The lamp was raised for the final look, the leave-taking.

Dacier buried his face, thinking many things—­the common multitude in insurrection.

‘A servant should be told to come now,’ she said.  ’I have only to put on my bonnet and I am ready.’

‘You will take no . . . ?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It is not too late for a carriage to be ordered.’

‘No—­the walk!’

They separated.

He roused the two women in the dressing-room, asleep with heads against the wall.  Thence he sped to his own room for hat and overcoat, and a sprinkle of cold water.  Descending the stairs, he beheld his companion issuing from the chamber of death.  Her lips were shut, her eyelids nervously tremulous.

They were soon in the warm sweet open air, and they walked without an interchange of a syllable through the park into the white hawthorn lane, glad to breathe.  Her nostrils took long draughts of air, but of the change of, scene she appeared scarcely sensible.

At the park-gates, she said:  ‘There is no necessity four your coming.’

His answer was:  ’I think of myself.  I gain something every step I walk with you.’

‘To-day is Thursday,’ said she.  ‘The funeral is . . . ?’

’Monday has been fixed.  According to his directions, he will lie in the churchyard of his village—­not in the family vault.’

‘I know,’ she said hastily.  ’They are privileged who follow him and see the coffin lowered.  He spoke of this quiet little resting-place.’

’Yes, it’s a good end.  I do not wonder at his wish for the honour you have done him.  I could wish it too.  But more living than dead—­that is a natural wish.’

‘It is not to be called an honour.’

‘I should feel it so-an honour to me.’

’It is a friend’s duty.  The word is too harsh; it was his friend’s desire.  He did not ask it so much as he sanctioned it.  For to him what has my sitting beside him been!’

‘He had the prospective happiness.’

’He knew well that my soul would be with him—­as it was last night.  But he knew it would be my poor human happiness to see him with my eyes, touch him with my hand, before he passed from our sight.’