Into her own room the noise of the feasters could not penetrate. The red candles burned with a steady gleam.
"I think I shall take this room when you are gone," said Kuei-lien; "it is quieter than mine."
There was a light tap on the door.
"I must leave you now," announced the concubine, in the same teasing voice; "it is time for you to weep. You must weep, you know. All brides are supposed to weep. Your ancestors will be angry if they see you showing no signs of sadness at leaving them. We shall all measure your affection for us by the noise you make. Your father will be listening with a watch in his hand. But, however much you wail, don't spoil your dress. I shall be back soon to undress you so that it will be fresh for the morning."
The tap on the door was repeated. Kuei-lien stepped gingerly round the red carpet and went softly out of the room. To her surprise she found the t'ai-t'ai waiting outside. Despite the dim light she could see deep agitation in the woman's face; she followed without any sound into her own room. The t'ai-t'ai looked to make sure the door was fastened; her attention was strained as though she suspected the walls of bending down to catch her words.
"The Great Man is dead," she said in a voice almost too low for Kuei-lien to hear.
"What!" exclaimed the girl. "Dead? It can't be. It is not true. How can he be dead? We have only just come from his room."
"I found him dead. He was lying with his head across his desk."
Kuei-lien considered the sentence for a moment.
"Yes, so he was," she admitted.