"She did nothing, I am sure of that. She just stood, waiting for him to speak. She might have stood all night; she's like that. She didn't know he never would speak again. Finally I grew tired and pushed the door open. And there he was, with his head on the table"—Kuei-lien could not help shivering at the memory—"and she was staring at the floor. I couldn't see any more use in her doing that—ai, it was more useless than I thought! I took her hand and brought her out again."
"Then she can't have guessed that he was dead," exclaimed the t'ai-t'ai with a gasp of relief. "She surely would have cried out. She can't have guessed, she certainly can't have guessed. You must go back to her and see that she doesn't get some crazy impulse, some crazy notion of running back to her father's room to say good-bye. I am never sure of what she may do next. It is never safe to trust her. If she doesn't know, then we are all right. What good would it do to tell her now? She will learn quickly enough."
"Yes, she will—poor child," Kuei-lien said.
"It's no use telling anyone till she's safely away in her chair. I have locked his door. What time does she go?"
"At seven; the chair will be here about six."
"Good. It's only for a night. After she's gone it won't matter if we find out that the Great Man is dead. It will be too late to stop the wedding. But it mustn't be known to-night. That would just make matters difficult for all of us and wouldn't do him any good. Aren't we carrying out his own wishes? And who knows what that girl might do if we postponed the wedding? With her father gone, there's not a soul in the house can control that stubborn will of hers. You go back to her and I'll see that he isn't disturbed."
"They would have to make a lot of noise to disturb him now," Kuei-lien said.
She found Nancy sitting stiffly, gazing with dry eyes at the candles.
"Haven't you wept?" she asked, with a gesture of playful reproof. "Ah, but never mind, Nancy, you will weep!"
The bride still persisted in silence.