He turned back. The smile that he gave to his wife was reminiscent of charm. Clancy could understand how, some years ago, the brilliant and charming Sophie Carey had succumbed to that smile. Slowly he shook his head.
"Sophie, you've been the bravest thing in the world. You aren't going to be a coward now."
He was through the door, and it slammed behind him before his wife moved. Then she started for the door. She made only one stride, and then she slumped, to lie, a huddled heap, upon the hallway floor.
How long Clancy stood there she couldn't have told. Probably not more than a few seconds, yet, in her numbed state, it seemed hours before she moved toward the unconscious woman. For she thought that Sophie Carey was dead. It was a ridiculous thought, nevertheless it was with dread that she finally bent over the prostrate figure. Then, seeing the bosom move she screamed.
From up-stairs Ragan, the chauffeur, Jack-of-all-trades whom she had seen at the Carey house in New York the other day, came running. His wife followed. Together they lifted Mrs. Carey and bore her to a couch in the living-room. But no restoratives were needed. Her eyes opened almost immediately. They cleared swiftly and she sat up.
"Ragan!"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Mr. Don!"
"Yes, ma'am."