s
though she had just left it: the brushes were neatly placed
on the toilet-table, one on each side of the comb; someone had
smoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night in
the studio; and her nightdress in a little case lay on the pillow.
It was impossible to believe that she would never come into
that room again.

But he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to get himself
some water. Here, too, was order. On a rack were the plates
that she had used for dinner on the night of her quarrel with
Strickland, and they had been carefully washed. The knives
and forks were put away in a drawer. Under a cover were the
remains of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust of
bread. She had done her marketing from day to day, buying
only what was strictly needful, so that nothing was left over
from one day to the next. Stroeve knew from the enquiries
made by the police that Strickland had walked out of the house
immediately after dinner, and the fact that Blanche had washed
up the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror.
Her methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate.
Her self-possession was frightening. A sudden pang seized him,
and his knees felt so weak that he almost fell. He went back
into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He cried out
her name.

"Blanche. Blanche."

The thought of her suffering was intolerable. He had a sudden
vision of her standing in the kitchen -- it was hardly larger
than a cupboard -- washing the plates and glasses, the forks
and spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife-board;
and then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub,
and hanging the dish-cloth up to dry -- it was there still,
a gray torn rag; then looking round to see that
everything was clean and nice. He saw her roll down her
sleeves and remove her apron -- the apron hung on a peg behind
the door -- and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it
into the bedroom.

The agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room.
He went into the studio. It was dark, for the curtains had
been drawn over the great window, and he pulled them quickly
back; but a sob broke from him as with a rapid glance he took
in the place where he had been so happy. Nothing was changed
here, either. Strickland was indifferent to his surroundings,
and he had lived in the other's studio without thinking of
altering a thing. It was deliberately artistic. It represente