And then the swinging door puffed softly, sardonically, and on the tapestries Tristram and Isoud looked at each other and then at her and shook their heads in pity.
Crofts, who had neither heard nor been told, came in with that eminent champagne in a dingy and ancient bottle.
He went behind the screen to untwist the wires and rub away the spider-webs. Then he came forward toward Willie's place to pour the first few drops there, according to the rite, before he filled Persis' glass. He had eased out the cork, and the soul of the wine was frothing forth into the swathing cloth when he blinked at the empty chair; then his eyes went across to Persis. He stared at her in mute amazement. She stared at him. She beckoned.
He put the bottle on the table and shuffled toward her.
She motioned him nearer with a limp and tremulous hand, and he bent down to hear her tiny voice.
"Crofts, come closer—listen to me—do you hear?" He nodded. "Perfectly?" He nodded, wringing his dry old hands.
"Well," she began, "I must tell you—and you must remember. Mr. Enslee and I had a—a little quarrel—and I—I lost my temper—you know—and seized the knife and—and stabbed myself."
The old man did nothing unbecoming to his caste, but he stood doddering and longed to die in place of that beautiful youth. She beckoned him nearer again, and spoke in a strangled voice: "Remember, I did it—myself! Re-mem—"
Her head fell forward, her exquisite chin rested in her bosom. Her body collapsed upon itself, and only the arms of the chair and the table kept it from rolling out on the floor.