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.