Maxim slept on and I did not wake him.
The day ahead of us would be a weary thing and long.
High roads, and telegraph poles, and the monotony of passing traffic, the slow crawl into London.
We did not know what we should find at the end of our journey.
The future was unknown.
Somewhere to the north of London lived a man called Baker who had never heard of us, but he held our future in the hollow of his hand.
Soon he too would be waking, stretching, yawning, going about the business of his day.
I got up, and went into the bathroom, and began to run my bath.
These actions held for me the same significance as Robert and his clearing of the library had the night before.
I had done these things before mechanically, but now I was aware as I dropped my sponge into the water, as I spread my towel on the chair from the hot rail, as I lay back and let the water run over my body.
Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality. When I went back to the bedroom and began to dress I heard a soft footstep come and pause outside the door, and the key turn quietly in the lock. There was silence a moment, and then the footsteps went away.
It was Mrs Danvers.
She had not forgotten.
I had heard the same sound the night before after we had come up from the library.
She had not knocked upon the door, she had not made herself known; there was just the sound of footsteps and the turning of the key in the lock.
It brought me to reality and the facing of the immediate future.
I finished dressing, and went and turned on Maxim's bath.
Presently Clarice came with our tea.
I woke Maxim.
He stared at me at first like a puzzled child, and then he held out his arms.
We drank our tea.
He got up and went to his bath and I began putting things methodically in my suitcase.
It might be that we should have to stay in London.
I packed the brushes Maxim had given me, a nightdress, my dressing-gown and slippers, and another dress too and a pair of shoes.
My dressing-case looked unfamiliar as I dragged it from the back of a wardrobe.
It seemed so long since I had used it, and yet it was only four months ago.
It still had the Customs mark upon it they had chalked at Calais.
In one of the pockets was a concert ticket from the casino in Monte Carlo.
I crumpled it and threw it into the waste-paper basket.
It might have belonged to another age, another world.
My bedroom began to take on the appearance of all rooms when the owner goes away.
The dressing-table was bare without my brushes.
There was tissue-paper lying on the floor, and an old label.
The beds where we had slept had a terrible emptiness about them.
The towels lay crumpled on the bathroom floor.
The wardrobe doors gaped open.
I put on my hat so that I should not have to come up again, and I took my bag and my gloves and my suitcase.
I glanced round the room to see if there was anything I had forgotten.
The mist was breaking, the sun was forcing its way through and throwing patterns on the carpet.
When I was halfway down the passage I had a curious, inexplicable feeling that I must go back and look in my room again.
I went without reason, and stood a moment looking at the gaping wardrobe and the empty bed, and the tray of tea upon the table.
I stared at them, impressing them for ever on my mind, wondering why they had the power to touch me, to sadden me, as though they were children that did not want me to go away.
Then I turned and went downstairs to breakfast.
It was cold in the dining-room, the sun not yet on the windows, and I was grateful for the scalding bitter coffee and heartening bacon.
Maxim and I ate in silence.
Now and again he glanced at the clock.
I heard Robert put the suitcases in the hall with the rug, and presently there was the sound of the car being brought to the door.
I went out and stood on the terrace.
The rain had cleared the air, and the grass smelt fresh and sweet.
When the sun was higher it would be a lovely day.