At that the Countess dragged herself into a sitting posture and gazed about her. The shrouded windows, the close light, the unmade bed, the untidy chamber, the profusion of useless, extravagant things scattered about, formed a dreary picture. There was luxury but no comfort; to my lady's hazing eyes it appeared a cheerless place.
The little dog awoke, roused himself, jumped off the bed and came round to his mistress. She held out a shaking hand to him, and he leapt on to her lap.
"Honoria!" she said faintly, and looked towards the other room, where the sunshine lay strong and gold. Her fingers wandered over the spaniel's soft coat; she gave a little cough and passed her hand patiently to and from her brow. She was not thinking of anything at all; she felt that for the moment everything was suspended, but that presently she would be able to adjust it all in her own mind—think it out and put it straight.
When Honoria returned she had not moved. The maid was not alone; my lord, in his black ball dress, stained and tumbled with the rain and mud and the powder shaken out of his bright hair, followed her.
The Countess roused herself as she saw him.
"What is this?" he asked wildly.
"The end, my lord," she answered, coughing.
"Have you no remedies?" cried the Earl, turning on Honoria. "Have you done nothing for her?"
"One hath gone for the apothecary."