"Dites donc, mon petit,"—but the cheerful epithet he bestowed on Raoul is unquotable here—"Elle ne fume pas, votre Anglaise? Elle n'est pas Créole, c'est entendu."
Dorothea had stepped into the surgery. A small round table stood in the middle of the room; she caught at the edge of it and rested so for a moment, for the walls seemed to be swaying and she durst not lift her hands to shut out the roars of laughter. They rang in her ears and shouted and stunned her. Her whole body writhed.
The hubbub below sank to a confused murmur. She heard footsteps in the corridor—the firm tramp of the orderly followed by the shuffle of list slippers.
"Number Two-six-seven-two is outside, ma'am. Am I to show him in?"
She bent her head and moved towards the fireplace. She heard him shuffle in, and the door shut behind him. Still she did not turn.
"Dorothea!"—his voice shook with joy, with passion. How well she knew that deep Provençal tremolo. She could have laughed aloud in her bitterness.
"Dorothea!"
She faced him at length. He stood there, stretching out both hands to her. He was handsome as ever, but pale and sadly pinched. Beyond all doubt he had suffered. His grey-blue hospital suit hung about him in folds.
In her eyes he read at once that something was wrong—but without comprehending. "You sent for me," he stammered; "you have come—"
She found her voice and, to her surprise, it was quite firm.