It was about eight; the duel must be over now. The Countess would surely be awake. Honoria was surprised that she had not been roused by her in the night—that she should still be sleeping on such a morning as this. After all, my lord's life or death meant something to her.
Honoria adjusted her muslin mob, her pink ribbons, her buckle shoes—she was always neat, though she served a slovenly mistress—and opened the door that led into the Countess's bedchamber.
As she stepped into the close dun light of the shrouded room she came to a stop with a great start. The heavy-curtained bed was empty. The clothes were flung back and the spaniel slept on the coverlet; an open novel lay on the pillow; garments, dead flowers, masks, fans, boxes, books and prints lay scattered over the chairs and floor. The Countess was not in the chamber.
"My lady," cried Honoria softly, "my lady!"
She crossed the room quickly and entered the apartment beyond it, her mistress's private withdrawing-room. The blue brocaded satin curtains were drawn close and the white rose-wreathed walls showed cold and luminous in the confined light.
"My lady!" cried Honoria again.
At a little Chinese cabinet in the corner, set open and covered with a confusion of papers and rich articles of gold and jewels, sat the Countess, resting her head in her hands. She wore again the muslin dress, red mantle, and straw hat of last night. Her clothes were wet, clinging to her, and stained with mud. Her hair hung uncurled and unpowdered on to her shoulders; her face was drawn and of an unhealthy pallid colour. At her elbow stood a lit candle, and on the carpet by the chair was a little pile of burnt paper.
She did not move at her maid's entry, and Honoria spoke again.
"Have you been out, my lady?"