Shutters and curtains and the fireless grate gave the room an appalling likeness to the vaults.

So like to the home of death it seemed, that in a few minutes the watcher had lost count of time and kept but a wormy memory of the daylight.  She dared not speak, for some fear of startling; for the worse fear of never getting answer.  Tony’s hand was lifeless.  Her clasp of it struck no warmth.

She stung herself with bitter reproaches for having let common mundane sentiments, worthy of a Lady Wathin, bar her instant offer of her bosom to the beloved who suffered in this depth of mortal agony.  Tony’s love of a man, as she should have known, would be wrought of the elements of our being:  when other women named Happiness, she said Life; in division, Death.  Her body lying still upon the bed here was a soul borne onward by the river of Death.

The darkness gave sight after a while, like a curtain lifting on a veil:  the dead light of the underworld.  Tony lay with her face up, her underlip dropped; straight from head to feet.  The outline of her face, without hue of it, could be seen:  sign of the hapless women that have souls in love.  Hateful love of men!  Emma thought, and was; moved to feel at the wrist for her darling’s pulse.  He has, killed her! the thought flashed, as, with pangs chilling her frame, the pressure at the wrist continued insensible of the faintest beat.  She clasped it, trembling, in pain to stop an outcry.

‘It is Emmy,’ said the voice.

Emma’s heart sprang to heaven on a rush of thanks.

‘My Tony,’ she breathed softly.

She hung for a further proof of life in the motionless body.  ‘Tony!’ she said.

The answer was at her hand, a thread-like return of her clasp.

‘It is Emmy come to stay with you, never to leave you.’

The thin still answer was at her hand a moment; the fingers fell away.  A deep breath was taken twice to say: 

‘Don’t talk to me.’

Emma retained the hand.  She was warned not to press it by the deadness following its effort to reply.

But Tony lived; she had given proof of life.  Over this little wavering taper in the vaults Emma cowered, cherishing the hand, silently hoping for the voice.

It came:  ‘Winter.’

‘It is a cold winter, Tony.’

‘My dear will be cold.’

‘I will light the fire.’

Emma lost no time in deciding to seek the match-box.  The fire was lit and it flamed; it seemed a revival in the room.  Coming back to the bedside, she discerned her Tony’s lacklustre large dark eyes and her hollow cheeks:  her mouth open to air as to the drawing-in of a sword; rather as to the releaser than the sustainer.  Her feet were on the rug her maid had placed to cover them.  Emma leaned across the bed to put them to her breast, beneath her fur mantle, and held them there despite the half-animate tug of the limbs and the shaft of iciness they sent to her very heart.  When she had restored them to some warmth, she threw aside her bonnet and lying beside Tony, took her in her arms, heaving now and then a deep sigh.