Preceded by the menial, he came into the room hurriedly, apologetically, with an air of acute anxiety. And as he saw her lying on her back, with flushed features, her hair disarranged, and only the grace of the silk ribbons of her matinee to mitigate the melancholy repulsiveness of her surroundings, that anxiety seemed to deepen.
“Dear madame,” he stammered, “all my excuses!” He hastened to the bedside and kissed her hand—a little peek according to his custom. “You are ill?”
“I have my migraine,” she said. “You want Gerald?”
“Yes,” he said diffidently. “He had promised——”
“He has left me,” Sophia interrupted him in her weak and fatigued voice. She closed her eyes as she uttered the words.
“Left you?” He glanced round to be sure that the waiter had retired.
“Quitted me! Abandoned me! Last night!”
“Not possible!” he breathed.
She nodded. She felt intimate with him. Like all secretive persons, she could be suddenly expansive at times.
“It is serious?” he questioned.