Lady Wychcote grew pale. And Sophy, looking at her, thought how strange it was that her random slander of herself (Sophy) had so come home to her. She had accused her daughter-in-law of giving her son drugs—idly, as she said such bitter, untrue things of people when displeased with them, not counting the cost to others involved. She had noticed Cecil's growing eccentricity, and in order to attribute it more directly to what she termed his "disastrous" marriage, had accused Sophy of this dark thing. And now—lo! the dark thing was no lie, but the truth—only it was her son himself who was his own destroyer, not the woman whom she hated.
She rallied suddenly, rearing her head back with the gesture habitual to her.
"I wish to see for myself," she said haughtily, moving towards the door. "He will not know. Show me these marks on his arms."
"No!" said Sophy, in a low voice, stepping in front of her.
"What! You try to prevent me from seeing my son?"
"I shall keep you from going to him while he is helpless—for such a purpose."
She laid her hand on a bell near by.
"Let me pass," said Lady Wychcote, in a suffocated voice. Dr. Hopkins looked the image of respectability in distress. The heavens would not have been enough to cover him. He would have preferred something more solid—the whole earth between him and these incensed ladies.
"No!" said Sophy again. "If you insist, I shall be forced to ring and give orders that no one is to be admitted to my husband's room."
"You would dare do that?"