man's head. A pleasant, sociable room at ordinary
times, but now impregnated with the vague gloom that hangs over all
the house and seeks even here to check the gaudy brightness of the sun
that, rushing in, tries to illuminate it.

At the sideboard stands Simon Gale, the butler and oldest domestic of
Hythe, who has lived with the dead lord as man and boy, and now
regrets him with a grief more strongly resembling the sorrowing of one
for a friend than for a master.

With downcast eyes and bowed head he stands, thinking sadly how much
too old he is for new cares and fresh faces. Reginald had been all
the world to him: the new man is as nothing. Counting friendships as
of little worth unless years have gone to prove their depth and
sincerity, he feels no leaning towards the present possessor,--knows
him too short a time to like or dislike, to praise or blame.

Now, as his eyes wander down the long table, to where he can see the
empty chair of him who rests with such unearthly tranquillity in the
silent chamber above, the thought of how soon a comparative stranger
will fill it causes him a bitter pang. And, as he so muses, the door
opens, and they all come in,--Sartoris first, with Clarissa, pale, and
quiet; the brothers--so like, yet so unlike--following.

Old Simon, rousing himself, watches with jealous eyes to see the place
so long occupied by Reginald usurped by another. But he watches in
vain. Sartoris, without so much as a glance in its direction, takes
the chair at the lower end of the table; and the others, following his
lead, seat themselves at the sides without comment of any kind;
whereupon Gale draws a long breath, and vows fidelity to his new lord
upon the spot.

It is a dismal meal, dull, and dispiriting. The ghastly Egyptian mummy
seems present in full force, if not in the letter at least in the
spirit. Sartoris, having taken a glass of sherry, trifles with the
meat upon his plate, but literally eats nothing. No one appears
possessed with a desire to speak, and indeed there is little to be
said. When luncheon is nearly over, a small dark object, hitherto
unseen, creeps out from some forgotten corner, and stretches itself
forlornly; it is poor Reginald's favorite dog, that ever since his
death has lain crouching out of sight, but now, driven by the pain of
hunger, comes creeping forward, whining piteously.

He goes up to the accustomed chair, but, finding it for the first time
empty and deaf to his comp