They had belonged to Robert Gareth-Lawless who was dead and needed
such things no more. The same dim light showed the steep narrowness
of the white-railed staircase mounting into gruesome little corners
of shadows, while the miniature drawing-rooms illumined only from
the street seemed to await an explanation of dimness and chairs
unfilled, combined with unnatural silence.
It would have been the silence of the tomb but that it was now and
then broken by something like a half smothered shriek followed by
a sort of moaning which made their way through the ceiling from
the room above.
Feather had at first run up and down the room like a frightened
cat as she had done in the afternoon. Afterwards she had had
something like hysterics, falling face downward upon the carpet
and clutching her hair until it fell down. She was not a person to
be judged--she was one of the unexplained incidents of existence.
The hour has passed when the clearly moral can sum up the
responsibilities of a creature born apparently without brain, or
soul or courage. Those who aspire to such morals as are expressed
by fairness--mere fairness--are much given to hesitation. Courage
had never been demanded of Feather so far. She had none whatever
and now she only felt panic and resentment. She had no time to
be pathetic about Robert, being too much occupied with herself.
Robert was dead--she was alive--here--in an empty house with no
money and no servants.
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