Dr. Gannet was of good hope, and thereupon he re-entered the ranks of the
voluminous procession, already winding spirally round the dome of St.
Paul's. And there, said he, is the tomb of Beauchamp. Everything
occurred according to his predictions, and he was entirely devoid of
astonishment. Yet he would fain have known the titles of the slain
admiral's naval battles. He protested he had a right to know, for he was
the hero's uncle, and loved him. He assured the stupid scowling people
that he loved Nevil Beauchamp, always loved the boy, and was the
staunchest friend the fellow had. And saying that, he certainly felt
himself leaning up against the cathedral rails in the attitude of Dr.
Shrapnel, and crying, 'Beauchamp! Beauchamp!' And then he walked firmly
out of Romfrey oakwoods, and, at a mile's distance from her, related to
his countess Rosamund that the burial was over without much silly
ceremony, and that she needed to know nothing of it whatever.

Rosamund's face awoke him. It was the face of a chalk-quarry,
featureless, hollowed, appalling.

The hour was no later than three in the morning. He quitted the
detestable bed where a dream--one of some half-dozen in the course of his
life-had befallen him. For the maxim of the healthy man is: up, and have
it out in exercise when sleep is for foisting base coin of dreams upon
you! And as the healthy only are fit to live, their maxims should be
law. He dressed and directed his leisurely steps to the common, under a
black sky, and stars of lively brilliancy. The lights of a carriage
gleamed on Dr. Shrapnel's door. A footman informed Lord Romfrey that
Colonel Halkett was in the house, and soon afterward the colonel
appeared.

'Is it over? I don't hear him,' said Lord Romfrey.