The bedroom was over the library, and was the same size and with the same kind of window. Where the bookcase stood in the room below, stood the bed: a double, or even a treble, bed, so very big was it, facing the window past which Vera--it was no use, she couldn't get away from Vera--having slept her appointed number of nights, fell and was finished. But she wasn't finished. If only she had slipped away out of memory, out of imagination, thought Lucy ... but she hadn't, she hadn't--and this was her room, and that intelligent-eyed thin thing had slept in it for years and years, and for years and years the looking-glass had reflected her while she had dressed and undressed, dressed and undressed before it--regularly, day after day, year after year--oh, what a trouble--and her thin long hands had piled up her hair--Lucy could see her sitting there piling it on the top of her small head--sitting at the dressing-table in the window past which she was at last to drop like a stone--horribly--ignominiously--all anyhow--and everything in the room had been hers, every single thing in it had been Vera's, including Ev---- Lucy made a violent lunge after her thoughts and strangled them. Meanwhile Wemyss had shut the door and was standing looking at her without moving. 'Well?' he said. She turned to him nervously, her eyes still wide with the ridiculous things she had been thinking. 'Well?' he said again. She supposed he meant her to praise the room, so she hastily began, saying what a good view there must be on a fine day, and how very comfortable it was, such a nice big looking-glass--she loved a big looking-glass--and such a nice sofa--she loved a nice sofa--and what a very big bed--and what a lovely carpet---- 'Well?' was all Wemyss said when her words came to an end. 'What is it, Everard?' 'I'm waiting,' he said. 'Waiting?' 'For my kiss.' She ran to him. 'Yes,' he said, when she had kissed him, looking down at her solemnly, '_I_ don't forget these things. _I_ don't forget that this is the first time my own wife and I have stood together in our very own bedroom.' 'But Everard I didn't forget--I only----' She cast about for something to say, her arms still round his neck, for the last thing she could have told him was what she had been thinking--oh, how he would have scolded her for being morbid, and oh, how right he would have been!--and she ended by saying as lamely and as unfortunately as she had said it in the château of Amboise--'I only didn't remember.' Luckily this time his attention had already wandered away from her. 'Isn't it a jolly room?' he said. 'Who's got far and away the best bedroom in Strorley? And who's got a sitting-room all for herself, just as jolly? And who spoils his little woman?'