He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one, so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper what your room and what mine must one day be. My Lady's state has a hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner apartment, where Mr. Bucket last night made his secret perquisition, the traces of her dresses and her ornaments, even the mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion of herself, have a desolate and vacant air. Dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted chambers than in many a hut that will barely exclude the weather; and though the servants heap fires in the grates and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy light shoot through to the furthest corners, there is a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light will dispel.
The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are complete, and then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs. Rouncewell's place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces and rouge pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are but indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances. Volumnia, not being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what is the matter, has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate observations and consequently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at her kinsman's eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of, "He is asleep." In disproof of which superfluous remark Sir Leicester has indignantly written on the slate, "I am not."

He is right. My Lady's room has a hollow and abandoned look; dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted chambers than in many a poor hut. Though the servants heap fires in the grates, there is a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light will dispel.
When the preparations are complete, Mrs. Rouncewell returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken her place by Sir Leicester's bed, though pearl necklaces and rouge pots are indifferent comforts to the invalid. Volumnia, not knowing what is the matter, has resorted to distracting smoothings of the bed-linen, elaborate tiptoe-ing around, and one exasperating whisper of, "He is asleep." Which has caused Sir Leicester to have indignantly written on the slate, "I am not."
