There came no movement from the chair. The silence remained unbroken
save for the ticking of a clock and the loud beating of her own heart.
The two seemed to merge into one gigantic pulse . . . deafening . . .
overwhelming . . . like the surge of some immense, implacable sea.

She swayed a little, clutching at the door for support. Then the
throbbing ceased, and she was only conscious of a solitude so intense
that it seemed to press about her like a tangible thing.

Swiftly, on feet of terror, she crossed the room and stood looking down
at the motionless figure of her uncle. His face was turned towards the
sun, and wore an expression of complete happiness and content, as though
he had just found something for which he had been searching. He had
looked like that a thousand times, when, seeking for her, he had come
upon her, at last, hidden in some shady nook in the garden or swinging
in her hammock. She could almost hear the familiar "Oh, there you are,
little pal!" with which he would joyously acclaim her discovery.

She lifted the hand that was resting quietly on his knee. It lay in
hers, flaccid and inert, its dreadful passivity stinging her into
realization of the truth. Patrick was dead. And, judging from his
expression, he had found death "a very good sort of thing," just as he
had expected.

For a little while Sara remained standing quietly beside the still
figure in the chair. They would never be alone together any more--not
quite like this, Patrick sitting in his accustomed place, wearing
his beloved old tweeds, with an immaculate tie and with his single
eyeglass--about which she had so often chaffed him--dangling across his
chest on its black ribbon.