Mrs. Grundy commanded him to go at once. Common humanity bade him stay. Peter was very human, and he stayed. About half-past five Jan woke. She was certainly confused, but not in the least frightened. It was light, not brilliantly light as it would be a little later on, but clear and opalescent, as though the sun were shining through fold upon fold of grey-blue gauze. The electric light in the verandah and the one over Peter's head were still burning and looked garish and wan, and Jan's first coherent thought was, "How dreadfully wasteful to have had them on all night--Peter's electric light, too"--and then she saw him. His body was crumpled up in the big chair; his legs were thrust out stiffly in front of him. He looked a heartrending interpretation of discomfort in his evening clothes, for he hadn't even loosened the collar. He had thought of it, but felt it might be disrespectful to Jan. Besides, there was something of the chaperon about that collar. Jan's tears that had refused to soften sorrow during the anguish of the night came now, hot and springing, to blur that absurd, pathetic figure looped sideways in the big chair. It was so plain why he was there. She sniffed helplessly (of course, she had lost her handkerchief), and thrust her knuckles into her eyes like any schoolboy. When she could see again she noticed how thin was the queer, irregular face, with dark hollows round the eyes. "I wonder if they feed him properly at that Yacht Club," thought Jan. "And here are we using his house and his cook and everything." She swung her feet off the sofa and disentangled them from the shawl, folded it neatly and sat looking at Peter, who opened his eyes. For a full minute they stared at each other in silence, then he stretched himself and rose. "I say, have you slept?" he asked. "Till a minute ago ... Mr. Ledgard ... why did you stay? It was angelic of you, but you must be so dreadfully tired. I feel absolutely rested and, oh, so grateful--but so ashamed...." "Then you must have some tea," said Peter, inconsequently. "I'll go and rouse up Lalkhan and the cook. We can't get any ourselves, for he locks up the whole show every blessed night." * * * * * In the East burial follows death with the greatest possible speed. Peter and the doctor and the nurse arranged everything. A friend of Peter's who had little children sent for Ayah and Tony and little Fay to spend the day, and Jan was grateful. Fay and her baby were laid in the English cemetery, and Jan was left to face the children as best she could. They had been happy, Ayah said, with the kind lady and her children. Tony went straight to his mother's room, the room that had been closed to him for three whole days. He came back to Jan and stood in front of her, searching her face with his grave, judging gaze.