From the foot of the bed she went with her ghost’s footfall to the dressing-table, massive and ornate as a shrine. Pulling out a drawer, she pressed a hidden spring. The looking-glass 89slid aside, and disclosed the doors of a little cabinet, which in their turn opened at the twirling of an ivory pillar. There were the jewels, the rings, the brooches, the bracelets. She knew them as well as she knew the contents of her kitchen drawer. She had always taken care of them, cleaning them once a fortnight with jewellers’ rouge and putting them back in their velvet lair. Now she took them out for the last time, holding them to the light, watching the coloured flashes leap from the diamonds, feeling the sharp facets of the emeralds and the faint greasiness of the rubies. But they did not tempt her. She examined them only for the pleasure of admiring them, and for a sentimentality of farewell. She laid them back, one by one, and took out the thing she had in mind, a long gold chain on which, at wide intervals, diamonds were set like dewdrops. It was an ornament that Mrs Probus had not worn during her memory; but like the rest, it had been cleaned every fortnight, and once, years ago, while she was polishing it, Mrs Probus had glanced at it, calling it by some foreign name, and saying that it was an old-fashioned thing, which she would never wear again, and really ought to sell; for the stones, though not large, were of a fine water, and Meux would certainly give a thousand for it. Sold one by one—and it would not be difficult to tweak them out of their light claw setting—they would not bring so much, Shadwell supposed; for part of the beauty of the ornament was the exact matching of gem to gem. But by taking a diamond from time to time, sometimes here, sometimes there, and sheltering in her indelible appearance of respectability, she would be able to dispose of them with 90very little risk. Even if she had been sure of selling one of the more valuable pieces without being detected, she would not have done so. She wanted no more than her due—enough to ensure that she would end her days still retaining her independence and self-respect. As it had not been granted, she had taken it.

She closed the cabinet, pressed the spring. The looking-glass slid into place, offering her the image of her narrow bust and dull, dutiful face, and behind her, the bed, and Mrs Probus lying on it—her hands, with no ornament but the gold wedding-ring, folded under the single bunch of white carnations. Reflecting again, with censure, on Mr Laidlaw’s omission—what could he have been thinking of to forget the flowers? He brought them regular enough while Mrs Probus was alive—Shadwell walked over to the bedside and, after consideration, slightly adjusted one of the carnations. Then she went back to the kitchen, where the kettle was now boiling, and made herself a cup of tea.