At that moment one of those trifling things occurred which lately seemed constantly coming across her path. A movement of Lady Clifford's arm swept her cigarette-case to the floor and it fell with a clatter close to the card-table. Stooping down, Esther picked it up and crossed to restore it to its owner.
"Merci, mille fois," Thérèse murmured mechanically, putting out her hand. She did not look up or she would have seen the sudden dilation of Esther's eyes as she caught sight of the fashion drawings on the two pages open in front of her.
The sketches showed in every detail, and with the greatest possible degree of chic and coquetterie, the latest mode in widow's garb.
What a curious paradox! It was absurdly unimportant, yet how odd it seemed that Lady Clifford, while speaking with calm confidence of her husband's recovery, should at the same time be regarding with interest the newest ideas in mourning!
"Your play, my dear. Why, what is the matter? Were you bothered about something?"
"No, not in the least, Miss Clifford. I'm rather tired to-night, that's all. Perhaps it's the weather."
She was not sorry to say good-night and withdraw to the solitude of her bedroom. The sense of vague trouble which had so often haunted her since she had entered this house was strong upon her now. It had been an uncomfortable evening; Roger's enigmatic behaviour still disturbed her peace of mind. Now, for an insufficient reason, she felt uneasy about her patient. She could not go to bed without having a look at him, merely to set her fears at rest.
The night-nurse was sitting in an easy chair behind the screen, reading a Tauchnitz edition of a novel by Florence Barclay. She came forward with her elaborately cautious step, smiling with all her false teeth to the fore.
"How is he to-night? Going on as usual?" Esther whispered.
"Oh, quate, quate! Look at him—as peaceful as a baby, poor old thing. I hardly think we need to worry. I hear she's down to-night. How's she looking?"