She stepped to the bellpull. Her hand was on it, when she heard the girl's voice muttering in the next room—the boudoir. At least, it sounded like Polly's voice, though its tone was strangely subdued and level. "Talking to herself," Dorothea decided, and smiled, in spite of her annoyance, as everyone smiles who catches another in this trick. She dropped the bellpull and opened the boudoir door.
Polly was not talking to herself. She was leaning far out of the open window, and at the sound of the door started back into the room with a gasp and a short cry.
"To whom were you talking?"
Dorothea had set the candle down in the bedroom. Outside the window the park lay spread to the soft moonshine, but the moon did not look directly into the boudoir. In the half-light mistress and maid sought each other's eyes.
"To whom were you talking?" Dorothea demanded, sternly.
Polly was silent for a second or two, then her chin went up defiantly.
"To Mr. Raoul," she muttered.
"To M. Raoul!—to M. Raoul? I don't understand. Is M. Raoul—Oh, for goodness sake speak, girl! What is that? I see a piece of paper in your hand."
Polly twisted it in her fingers, and made a movement to hide it in her pocket; but with the movement she seemed to reflect.
"He gave it to me; I don't understand anything about it. I was shutting the window, when he whistled to me; he gave me this. I—I think he meant it for you."