Esther noticed that Roger displayed no astonishment whatever, merely glancing expectantly at his father. The old man's lips twisted into a grim smile as he remarked dryly:
"You behave as if you were quite certain I was going to die, my dear."
A swift change came over her face. Pushing Esther aside, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed, grasping her husband's bony hand and pressing it against her cheek emotionally.
"Ah, why do you say such things. You are too cruel; you want to make me suffer!"
"There, there, don't make a song about it. Of course I don't want to make you suffer. Now go. I want to rest."
Still clinging to his hand, she began to weep, convulsively, without restraint. Esther, greatly embarrassed, made two attempts to lift her up, but she resisted. At last Roger bent over the huddled figure and touched her on the shoulder.
"See here, Thérèse," he whispered, so low that the rather deaf old man did not catch his words, "I don't like this arrangement any more than you do, but if we oppose him now it can only do harm. Leave him to me, and when he's well enough I'll tackle him again."
The weeping ceased, she stiffened to attention, her face still hidden. Then slowly she raised her head, her cheeks streaked with tears. Little rivulets of black coursed from her lashes. For several seconds her gaze swept his countenance, her expression strangely hostile, yet enigmatic. Watching her, Esther could not possibly guess what was going on behind that mask.
"Very well," Lady Clifford murmured at last in a detached voice, all passion gone. "You may be right."
She got up, smoothed her hair automatically, drew her peignoir close about her, and walked out of the room like a woman in a dream. Esther gazed after her, astonished but relieved. She had feared she would have to remove her by force. Now that the extraordinary episode was over she was quite unnerved, her heart beat fast, her hands trembled.