“Where is he?” she asked, pressing her fingers to her pale face.
“On the sofa at the end of the deck,” he said.
She sprang to her feet. “No, no!” she cried. “Not there—please not there!”
She buried her face in her hands; and Benifett Bindane, disliking hysteria, hurried away to the saloon, where he played Patience by himself until the small hours; while his wife, Kate, wedging herself into Muriel’s narrow bed, comforted her friend until dozing sleep fell upon them.
The next two or three days were like a nightmare. An impenetrable gloom seemed to rest upon the Residency; and, although the body lay in the mortuary of a neighbouring hospital, it was as though the presence of death were actually in the house.
The funeral came almost as a relief; and when the imposing ceremony was at an end, she felt as though the weight were beginning to be lifted from her heart. For the first time since the tragedy she was able to speak of it with calmness.
“You know, father dear,” she said, “Rupert and I came to mean a very great deal to one another in these few weeks that we’ve been together.”
He glanced at her timidly, and patted her hand.
“Yes,” he answered, “I have eyes, Muriel.”
She turned and looked at him with a little smile of confidence. “We were going to be married,” she said.