Selina and Susannah stepped closer.
The gold brocade curtains were looped back from the carved canopy, displaying to all who cared to gaze the body of Rose Lyndwood, clad in the white and silver in which he had died, and resting on the purple satin coverlet and silk pillows of his bed.
His head lay lightly to one side and tilted upwards, his hair, powdered and tied with a black ribbon, spread across the pillows; his hands, on which the rings still gleamed, were crossed on the heavy lace of cravat and shirt that fell over his breast; there were diamonds in his watch-chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket, in the buckles of his shoes and in the brooch at his throat.
By his side lay his gilt-hilted rapier in its gold scabbard; the coverlet was hid in flowers, and the floor about piled with wreaths of roses, lilies, syringa, violets and hawthorn, mostly tied with ribbons on which were written ladies' names.
Selina held the curtain yet further back and gazed into his face.
The shadow was over him, and so little changed was his expression that the colourlessness and distortion of death seemed to have hardly touched him; he had always been pale.
Selina smiled.
Others entered the chamber and passed round the bed. Miss Chressham stood behind Selina, who leant forward, and both looked at Rose Lyndwood with tearless eyes.
Neither touched him nor even the edge of his garments, neither dropped a flower on his couch nor spoke one word of anguish, nor sighed once in lamentation.
After a little while they moved and left the room, their hands clasped and their lips closed. A smile lay, like a ghost of former happiness, on Selina's face; she seemed to see nothing, to hear nothing; her soul was listening to distant music, and treading different ways.