James Mitchell leaned avidly forward: "Old—sick—but—no man—deserts—my—daughter——"
Under cover of the hissing whisper, Hilda murmured rapidly, "Don't act hastily, Anne. All men——"
The muttering ceased, and Hilda broke off. But a faint shrug and an almost imperceptible nod toward the chair, spread before Anne's sickened sense, some long concealed, almost forgotten infidelity of the decaying old man in the chair.
"Stop. Both of you," she cried sharply. "There is no other woman. Roger has done nothing disgraceful. If you can't understand, I can't make you. We no longer love each other. Marriage is a free contract. It fitted one condition. It doesn't fit another. We've dissolved it."
The old man blinked and then turned piteously to Hilda. She went quickly to him. With her arms again about him, she flared at Anne.
"Anne Mitchell, you're doing a silly and wicked thing. You're—making—papa—miserable. You've no—right—in our old—age——"
James' fingers closed about hers. "Don't—cry—Hildy—children—ungrateful——"
And then, the walls began to dance about her, the two angry faces oscillated like grotesque masks, the floor was sinking under her. A great, peaceful darkness was coming towards her. At last she could let go, sink down into this soothing blackness. Anne swayed, clutched at the wall, and slid along its smoothness to the floor.
Twice she came to partial consciousness of a great bustle; some one was calling, footsteps rushed about, some one stepped over her and ran somewhere. Then she was being lifted and carried, and some one, not Hilda—it sounded like a faint, far echo of Charlotte Welles—said:
"There, she'll be all right now. Don't disturb her. Let her sleep as long as she can."