On the wide stairway were, here and there, fallen flowers: a leaf, a fern frond, a rose petal. On the landing the armour and the enamel ware from the library were piled, and great portfolios of the engravings my lord had always so lavishly bought. Several people passed them. Susannah glanced away for fear they might know her, but Selina gazed before her as if not aware that any came near. So they reached the door of my lord's chamber. A woman, flauntingly dressed, came out weeping violently; she dabbed at her eyes and looked round as Miss Boyle stopped. "Ah, you, ma'am," she said in a hysterical voice. "You, I remember you! You were in the box with him that night----" Selina looked at her with expressionless eyes, but Susannah spoke. "Who are you, madam?" "I was 'Statira,' ma'am," answered the actress, "but I am as free as you to come and look at him now." She lifted her head defiantly; tears had stained the rouge and powder on her face, and her powdered hair was disarranged under her fantastic hat. "Poor soul," said Miss Chressham. "I suppose you cared too. Do not look at me so fiercely," she added softly; "it does not hurt us that you have come." The actress burst into fresh tears. "God bless you for that; I had no right----" She snatched Miss Chressham's cold hand, kissed it and hurried on down the stairs. Selina did not seem to have seen her; she caught Miss Chressham by the arm and drew her gently across the threshold of the Earl's bedchamber. There were two servants inside the door, standing quietly; the blinds were drawn and the room close with the perfume of flowers. The thing was decorously done, Susannah told herself in a passionate bitterness. My lord's personal furniture, even his clothes, were still about the chamber, only the clock had been stopped and the mirrors were covered up; a couple of gentlemen and three ladies stood at the foot of the bed, whispering together. Selina and Susannah stepped closer. The gold brocade curtains were looped back from the carved canopy, displaying to all who cared to gaze the body of Rose Lyndwood, clad in the white and silver in which he had died, and resting on the purple satin coverlet and silk pillows of his bed. His head lay lightly to one side and tilted upwards, his hair, powdered and tied with a black ribbon, spread across the pillows; his hands, on which the rings still gleamed, were crossed on the heavy lace of cravat and shirt that fell over his breast; there were diamonds in his watch-chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket, in the buckles of his shoes and in the brooch at his throat. By his side lay his gilt-hilted rapier in its gold scabbard; the coverlet was hid in flowers, and the floor about piled with wreaths of roses, lilies, syringa, violets and hawthorn, mostly tied with ribbons on which were written ladies' names. Selina held the curtain yet further back and gazed into his face.