"I thought you were never coming!" ejaculated the Grand Duchess. If she noticed her daughter's pallor, she believed it due to anxiety about herself.
Sylvia stared, half dazed, unable yet to separate her mind from her own private misfortunes.
"Never coming!" she echoed mechanically. "Why—are you ill—did you 187 expect me?"
"I nearly fainted downstairs," returned the Grand Duchess, "and it is entirely your fault. You ought not to have exposed me, at my age, to such terrible shocks. Josephine, you can go."
Sylvia grew as cold as ice. She could think of but one explanation. Otto von Markstein had not been the only spy. Somehow, news of what had happened in the garden had reached the Grand Duchess, reducing her to this extremity. The Princess was scarcely conscious of hearing the door close after the banished Josephine, yet instinctively she waited for the click of the latch. "How did you know?" she asked dully.
"How did I know? I had a telegram. A most alarming, disconcerting telegram. The question is, how did you know that I knew, and how did you—did I—oh, I am so distressed, I hardly know anything!"
The word "telegram" showed Sylvia that somehow, somewhere, misunderstanding had entered in. Her mother's fretful complaints pried 188 among her nerves like hot wires; yet could she have believed it, the new pain was the best of counter-irritants.
"Are you suffering still, dear?" she questioned, carefully controlling her voice. With the Grand Duchess, it was always best to go back to the beginning, not to attempt picking up loose ends in the middle; thus, one sooner reached the end of a tangle.
"Yes, I am ill; very ill indeed. Did no one tell you, no one send you to me, as I asked?"
"I have seen no one since I left you—no one, that is, who could tell me anything. Won't you tell—now?"