Susannah looked pityingly at the outline of my lady's slight figure huddled on the tumbled pillows.
The Countess was attired in the gay silks of her former splendour. One hand was over her face; in the other she held a miniature, not that of her still unburied son, but that of her husband, fifteen years dead.
"Selina Boyle is here; she need not disturb you."
"Where is Marius?" moaned my lady. "Is he never coming?"
"He could not be here before to-night," said Miss Chressham for the hundredth time that day.
The Countess made no answer, and Susannah quietly withdrew, closing the doors as Selina Boyle entered the outer chamber.
For a moment the two ladies looked at each other with wild eyes, then Selina Boyle crossed the room and kissed Susannah on the cheek.
"Oh, my dear!" said Miss Chressham brokenly.
"I am very well," answered Selina, in a voice that sounded weak and hoarse. "I have just come up to town. I told my father; he brought me. I am very well."
She sank on to one of the torn striped chairs and loosened her black cloak. Her hair hung in disordered curls under her straw hat, her face was flushed, her lips feverish.