e had not known how
beautiful he was, until thus translated into cream-hued marble. His brow
seemed to triumph; on his lips was that austere, secretive smile as of
Initiation, that only death can give. It seemed to her that it was not
her husband who lay there before her, but a majestic High-priest, dead
with the words of some mysterious and awful ritual still on his lips,
now sealed with that smile of ultimate initiation.

She bent closer, very reverently, and kissed the thick fair hair, then
the wonderful, triumphant brow. She had never before touched the dead.
This coldness of what had been so warm made her realise in one sick
throe that the imagination of Divinity may be abominable....

Then all at once in the stark silence of the room she became conscious
of the ticking of his watch, made resonant by the bare wood of the table
on which it had been placed. Like a little metal heart it seemed,
continuing the unavailing minutes of the life that had stopped, while it
went on. And next to the coldness of the familiar brow, that ticking of
the dead man's watch seemed to her the most fearful thing that she had
ever known or dreamed of. She sank back on her knees, her hands folded
upon the bed, gazing at that loftily indifferent face, listening to the
steady pulse of the watch.... She could not bring it all near her. A
tragedy had taken place in some far planet, and this was the mysterious
painting of it on which she looked. That was not Cecil who lay there in
that frozen dignity, Cecil who had been like a flame from the hottest
core of life's great furnace ... he could never have lapsed into such
seemingly voluntary passionlessness, even in death. Had there been a
frown of revolt on his forehead, he would have seemed nearer, more real.
Thus, he was not Cecil, but a stranger.... She felt confused, impassive
and appalled. She was appalled at what she thought her own
heartlessness. But then why should she weep for him, when he lay there
with such plenitude of satisfaction and agreement on his forbiddingly
beautiful, stranger's face?

She went back after an hour into the next room. Her face looked dull and
wild at the same time. The Marchesa, who had lain down on the bed, rose
and drew her down beside her, keeping gentle but firm hold of her hand.
Sophy submitted obediently. She lay until day without moving, her eyes
wide open, fixed on the opposite wall. Now and then the Marchesa would
turn her head cautiously to see if by