“You have seen him?” he asked.
She nodded silently, unable to speak. Not now, not when her nerves were strung to breaking pitch, would she trust herself to speak of that awful yesterday. She groped in the folds of her gown and took the packet which Percy had given her for Armand. It felt quite bulky in her hand.
“There is quite a good deal there for you to read, dear,” she said. “Percy begged me to give you this, and then to let you read it when you were alone.”
She pressed the packet into his hand. Armand’s face was ashen pale. He clung to her with strange, nervous tenacity; the paper which he held in one hand seemed to sear his fingers as with a branding-iron.
“I will slip away now,” she said, for strangely enough since Percy’s message had been in Armand’s hands she was once again conscious of that awful feeling of iciness round her heart, a sense of numbness that paralysed her very thoughts.
“You will make my excuses to Mademoiselle Lange,” she said, trying to smile. “When you have read, you will wish to see her alone.”
Gently she disengaged herself from Armand’s grasp and made for the door. He appeared dazed, staring down at that paper which was scorching his fingers. Only when her hand was on the latch did he seem to realise that she was going.
“Little mother,” came involuntarily to his lips.
She came straight back to him and took both his wrists in her small hands. She was taller than he, and his head was slightly bent forward. Thus she towered over him, loving but strong, her great, earnest eyes searching his soul.
“When shall I see you again, little mother?” he asked.