No reply, and that augmented her suspicion, and she came on again: "Who are you, please?"
Wave upon wave that dreadful sickness swept over Audrey and set her brain aswim. Bewildered thoughts, like frantic arms of one that drowns, tossed up upon the flood, and like such arms that gesticulate and vanish, spun there a dizzy moment and spun away: This Lady Burdon? ... then this not Roly's house ... then what? ... then where? This Lady Burdon? ... then all her life with Roly was dream ... had never been ... none of her life had ever been ... what had been then?
A third time: "Who are you, please? Why do you not answer me?"
She made an effort. She said very pitiably: "Oh, how—oh, how can you be Lady Burdon?"
No wound—only the merest scratch, but increasing in Lady Burdon the dis-ease that had come to her on entering the room and had heightened at every moment.
In her turn it was hers to give pause, but she engaged quickly for the third bout.
"I see you do not understand," she said.
And Audrey: "Oh, please forgive me. No, I do not understand; I have been ill. I am ill."
"But I am afraid I do not understand you. I do not understand your manner. If you will tell me who you are—what it is you want—I can perhaps explain."
But Audrey only looked at her. Only most pitiable inquiry was in her eyes. Lady Burdon read their inquiry, that same "Oh, how can you be Lady Burdon?" and the question and the silence brought vague, unreasoning alarm in violent collision with her suspicions. Anger was struck out of their conjunction. She said sharply: