It was gone.
Only a mist, like the haze of its nebulous veil, drifted to and fro before Harold's eyes.
"O my God!" cried Ina. "Papa's fainting!" She caught him in her arms....
The dark evening fell.
One by one, the "children" went upstairs and looked at their old mother. She lay in the peacefulness of death; the lined porcelain face made a vague blur in the shadow against the white of her pillow, but it was now smooth, untroubled, at rest. And her hands were folded together: she had died like that.
Thérèse knelt beside the bed....
[CHAPTER XXIX]
The room was warmed by a moderate fire; the curtains were half-closed; and Lot had slept calmly, for the first time since the fever had passed its crisis. It was his own old room, in Mamma's house; and, when he woke, his fingers, after a deliciously lazy interval, felt for the letter which Elly had written him from St. Petersburg. He drew the letter from the envelope and read and read it again, glad that she had written so fully and that she seemed charged with courage and enthusiasm. Then his hand dropped, feeling the cold, and hid itself under the blankets. He lay in quiet content, after his first calm sleep, and looked round the room, the room which Steyn had given up to him years ago, so that he might work at his ease, with his books and knick-knacks around him. It was the only comfortable room in the house.... Well, he would not have it long. Steyn was gone; and Mamma intended to pay the final quarter's rent, sell the furniture and go back to England with Hugh....
Lot felt a little light-headed, but easy and with no fever, really a great deal better than he could remember having been for a long time past. He enjoyed the warmth of the bed, while outside—he had just noticed it—the rain came pattering down; but he, lying quietly in bed, did not mind the rain. On the table beside him was some water, a bottle of quinine capsules, a plate of hot-house grapes and his bell. He picked a couple of grapes, sucked them and rang.