Feeling dizzy, she sank down on the edge of the berth, keeping away from
his outstretched body, and pulling the curtains close, so that he and she
were shut into a kind of sepulchral twilight. She tried to think. At all
costs she must conceal the fact that he was dead. But how? Her mind
refused to act: she could not plan, combine. She could think of no way but
to sit there, clutching the curtains, all day long....

She heard the porter making up her bed; people were beginning to move
about the car; the dressing-room door was being opened and shut. She tried
to rouse herself. At length with a supreme effort she rose to her feet,
stepping into the aisle of the car and drawing the curtains tight behind
her. She noticed that they still parted slightly with the motion of the
car, and finding a pin in her dress she fastened them together. Now she
was safe. She looked round and saw the porter. She fancied he was watching
her.

"Ain't he awake yet?" he enquired.

"No," she faltered.

"I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have
it for him by seven."

She nodded silently and crept into her seat.

At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other
passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day.
The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows,
glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: "Ain't he going to get up?