"I shall see you in London, soon; till then fare ye well, Marius."
"Farewell, my lord."
The massive door opened and closed; the Earl was alone in the stately silent room with the ticking of the patient clock, the only sound beside his own movements to disturb the summer stillness.
He went to the window, opened it on the sweet mysterious dark and stood erect, looking out; he considered his wife, she had behaved as he had expected—it afforded him some bitter amusement to contrast her with Selina Boyle. How would she have acted in this wretched scene they had just brought to an end?—she, elusive, spiritual, delicate in manners, softest and proudest of women.
And it might as well have been, they might as well have left it altogether and found amid the dreamy luxury of Venice stately happiness.
My lord came back to the desk and picked up the miniature Marius had worn so many weeks next his heart.
The pure and steady breeze, entering like a welcome visitant through the open window, turned the candles into smoky torches and stirred the pomaded curls of Rose Lyndwood on his shoulders as he bent over the picture of his wife.
For a moment he was quite still and the emotion that took him was beyond thoughts as thoughts are beyond words; he made a quick movement of his hand to his heart, and any desperate thing seemed possible.
One of the candles blew out.