Just a little breeze stirred from time to time, enough to make the slats of the half-drawn Venetian blind rattle faintly.

Earlier in the day there had come in from the window the smell of dew-damp earth, but now that had been sucked up by the sun.
Close beside the window, with her back to the light and facing the bed, which projected from one of the side walls out into the room, sat Lady Ashbridge's nurse.

She was reading, and the rustle of the turned page was regular; but regular and constant also were her glances towards the bed where her patient lay.

At intervals she put down her book, marking the place with a slip of paper, and came to watch by the bed for a moment, looking at Lady Ashbridge's face and listening to her breathing.
Her eye met Michael's always as she did this, and in answer to his mute question, each time she gave him a little head-shake, or perhaps a whispered word or two, that told him there was no change.

Opposite the bed was the empty fireplace, and at the foot of it a table, on which stood a vase of roses.