It was only because they were such good friends that the busybodies said they had just missed being man and wife.
But when the Duke was gone, Margaret and Miss Skeat were left alone, and they drew near each other and sat by the table, the elder lady reading aloud from a very modern novel.

The Countess paid little attention to what she heard, for she was weary, and it seemed as though the evening would never end.

Miss Skeat's even and somewhat monotonous voice produced no sensation of drowsiness to-night, as it often did, though Margaret's eyes were half-closed and her fingers idle.

She needed rest, but it would not come, and still her brain went whirling through the scenes of the past twenty-four hours, again and again recurring to the question "Why is he gone ?" unanswered and yet ever repeated, as the dreadful wake-song of the wild Irish, the "Why did he die ?" that haunts the ear that has once heard it for weeks afterwards.
She tried to reason, but there was no reason.

Why, why, why?
He was gone with her kiss on his lips and her breath in his.