Only, when everything in the house had been seen to, a woman provided to attend to the dead, and all the trains off their lines set on them again, only then could Salome sit down and write to her sister of their common loss.
After this was done she wrote a few notes to friends, and then, lacking stamps, came with the packet to Philip's door.
He was seated at his secretaire writing, or pretending to write, with his brows bent, when he heard her distinct and gentle tap at the door. He knew her tap, it was like that of no one else, and he called to her to enter.
'My dear,' she said, 'I have not been able to come to you before. I have had so much to do; and—dear, I have wanted to speak to you; but, as you know, in such a case as this, personal wants must be set aside. Have you any stamps? I require a foreign one.'
He hardly looked up from the desk, but signed with the quill that she should shut the door. He was always somewhat imperious in his manner.
She shut the door, and came over to him, and laid the letters on his desk.
'You will stamp them for me, dear?' she said, and rested her hand lightly on his shoulder.
Then she saw how stern and set his face was, and a great terror came over her.
'Oh, Philip!' she said; and then, 'I know what you are taking to heart, but there is no changing the past, Philip.'
Sometimes we have seen the reflection of the sun in rippled waters out of doors sent within on the ceiling. How it dances; is here and there; now extinct, then once more it flashes out in full brilliancy. So was it with the colour in Salome's face; it started to one cheek, burnt there a moment, then went to the temples, then died away wholly, and in another moment was full in her face, the next to leave it ashy pale. Her voice also quivered along with the colour in her face, in rhythmic accord. Philip withdrew his shoulder from the pressure of her hand, and slowly stood up.