'
Leaving her stepsisters to argue this point, Rose went upstairs and
looked into Reginald's old room. She had known very little of him, but
she was sorry he was dead, sorry there was no longer a chance of his
presence in the house, of meeting him on the stairs, very late for
breakfast and quite oblivious of the inconvenience he was causing, and
on his lips some remark which no one else would have made.
His room had not been occupied for some time, but it seemed emptier
than before; the mirror gave back a reflection of polished furniture
and vacancy; the bed looked smooth and cold enough for a corpse. No
personal possessions were strewn about, and the room itself felt
chilly.
She was glad to enter her own, where beauty and luxury lived together.
The carpet was soft to her feet, a small wood fire burned in the
grate, for the evening promised to be cold, and the severe lines of
the furniture were clean and exquisite against the white walls. A pale
soft dressing-gown hung across a chair, a little handkerchief, as fine
as lace, lay crumpled on a table, there was a discreet gleam of silver
and tortoiseshell. This, at least, was the room of a living person.
Yet, as she stood before the cheval-glass, studying herself after the
habit of the Malletts, she thought perhaps she was less truly living
than Reginald in his grave. He left a memory of animation, of sin, of
charm; he had injured other people all his life, but they regretted
him and, presumably, he had had his pleasure out of their pain.
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