Geoffrey's white, silent face, the tears so strangely running down it, over his cheeks, into the corners of his lips, gave her a shudder. Her eyes turned again to the serenity, the slumbering serenity, of the dead face.
For long moments she sat still, while Geoffrey stifled his sobs.
"Is my letter there?" she said at last. He saw the open letter on the dressing table; near it was a sealed envelope.
He forced himself to cross the room to them. The dressing table was behind her; he lifted the letters above her head; the envelope was addressed to Mrs. Wynne. Hesitating, he glanced down, and saw that she had raised her head, that her eyes were on him. She put up her hand.
"I want it now," she commanded with her emotionless gentleness. Now--while I am still stupefied; he understood. He gave it to her and turned aside while she read, down there, at his feet, beside Maurice.
The letter was not long. He heard her hand fall softly with it. She sat, the vacant hand before her face, bowed over her husband.
Geoffrey could not speak to her and he could not leave her. He stood looking down at the dressing table--empty but for its little ivory tray, its pin-cushion. Maurice had not unpacked his dressing-case. A photograph of Felicia was stuck into the glass; not the framed one; that was packed too; he had taken it with him. This was a profile; not good; making her too sad, as Maurice had said.
He could not speak to her, he could not leave her, yet in his wretchedness he felt himself an alien, a merciless onlooker, till the tearing thought of Maurice, lying there, dead, seemed to justify his presence by his grief.
And presently he felt a touch on his hand. He looked down at her. Her face still hidden she held up the letter to him.
"I am to read it, Felicia? You wish me to read it?"
"He is ours. It is because of you--because of you that I----" She could not finish, and again he understood that she would say that because of him she could look on her dead husband with a right to her despair. He had given him back to her and her to him.
"Dearest Felicia," he read, "I was a coward. But I always loved you most--even when I lied to her. And now there is nothing in the world for me but you. And I am unworthy of you--and of my friend. All I can do for you is to set you free. Do you remember Maeterlinck's poem, darling? I do smile; not only so that you shan't cry, but for pure joy that at last I can really do something not ignoble in your eyes. Darling--darling--it is only horrible because I can't see you again, and because you hate me and perhaps may still hate me and not believe me. Don't, ah! don't hate me. Love me again when I am no longer there to give you pain. Be happy, dearest one.--MAURICE."