Here, Eth,
hold the glass a second.'

And Leonora accepted the powder from Rose and the milk from Ethel, as
they stood side by side in front of her. Great waves seemed to surge
through her brain. In walking to the bed, she saw herself all white in
the mirror of the wardrobe.

'My face looks as if it was covered with flour,' she said to Ethel, with
a short laugh. It did not occur to her that she was pale. 'Don't forget
to----' But she had forgotten what Ethel was not to forget. Her head
reeled as it lay firmly on the pillow. The waves were waves of sound
now, and they developed into a rhythm, a tune. She had barely time to
discover that the tune was the Blue Danube Waltz, and that she was
dancing, when the whole world came to an end.

* * * * *

She awoke to feel the radiant influence of the afternoon sun through the
green blinds. Impregnated with a delicious languor, she slowly stretched
out her arms, and, lifting her head, gazed first at the intricate
tracery of the lace on her silk nightgown, and then into the silent
dreamy spaces of the room. Everything was in perfect order; she guessed
that Ethel must have trod softly to make it tidy before leaving her,
hours ago. John's bed was turned down, and his pyjamas laid out, with
all Bessie's accustomed precision. Presently she noticed on her
night-table a sheet of note-paper, on which had been written in pencil,
in large letters: 'Ring the bell before getting up.' She could not be
sure whether the hand was Ethel's or Rose's. 'Oh!' she thought, 'how
good my girls are!' She was quite well, quite restored, and slightly
hungry. And she was also calm, content, ready to commence existence
anew.

'I suppose I had better humour them,' she murmured, and she rang the
bell.

Bessie entered. The treasure was irreproachably neat and prim in her
black and white.

'What time is it, Bessie?' Leonora inquired.

'It's a straight-up three, ma'am.'

'Then I must have slept for eleven hours! How is Mr. Myatt going on?'

Bessie dropped her hands, and smiled benevolently: 'Oh! He's much
better, ma'am. And when the doctor told him about poor Miss Myatt,
ma'am, he just said the funeral must be on Saturday because he didn't
like Sunday funerals, and it wouldn't do to wait till Monday. He didn't
say nothing else. And he keeps on telling us he shall be well enough to
go to the funeral, and he's sent master down to Guest's in St. Luke's
Square to order it,