“He is dead,” she said in a hushed and gentle voice, as the mother says: “He is sleeping.”
Geoffrey’s white, silent face, the tears so strangely running down it, over his cheeks, into the corners of his lips, gave her a shudder. Her eyes turned again to the serenity, the slumbering serenity, of the dead face.
For long moments she sat still, while Geoffrey stifled his sobs.
“Is my letter there?” she said at last. He saw the open letter on the dressing table; near it was a sealed envelope.
He forced himself to cross the room to them. The dressing table was behind her; he lifted the letters above her head; the envelope was addressed to Mrs. Wynne. Hesitating, he glanced down, and saw that she had raised her head, that her eyes were on him. She put up her hand.
“Wait—not now.”
“I want it now,” she commanded with her emotionless gentleness. Now—while I am still stupefied; he understood. He gave it to her and turned aside while she read, down there, at his feet, beside Maurice.
The letter was not long. He heard her hand fall softly with it. She sat, the vacant hand before her face, bowed over her husband.
Geoffrey could not speak to her and he could not leave her. He stood looking down at the dressing table—empty but for its little ivory tray, its pin-cushion. Maurice had not unpacked his dressing-case. A photograph of Felicia was stuck into the glass; not the framed one; that was packed too; he had taken it with him. This was a profile; not good; making her too sad, as Maurice had said.
He heard now that she wept.