"Do they?" Jasper ejaculated. "But even so, my dear, you surely are not going to suppose that the Roumanian government is going to lay hands on all Philip Imrey's relations, just because he has run his silly head into a noose."
"No! No!" Rosemary protested vaguely.
But she could not say anything more on the subject of Anna. Anna had told her everything in confidence: "I know I can trust you, Rosemary," the child had said, and Rosemary could not betray that confidence—not even by speaking of it all to Jasper—not even by hinting at it. If the peril became more imminent—if Anna herself was in danger—then perhaps. But not now.
Rosemary tried to swallow some breakfast, just to please jasper, for his kind, grave eyes looked quite sad, and she did not want to add to his anxiety. But her thoughts were dwelling on Elza.
"I wonder if she could bear to see me," she said presently.
"You can always ask," was Jasper's wise suggestion.
Rosemary found Elza Imrey outwardly quite calm and resigned. That woman had a marvellous fund of common sense and self-control. What she suffered no one should know. Only when she read true understanding and mute sympathy in Rosemary's eyes, she gave an answering look which contained such a depth of sorrow and anxiety that Rosemary's heart was overwhelmed with pity. In these few hours Elza had aged twenty years. Anton had brought the news across from the lodge to the château in the early morning as soon as the Roumanian soldiers had gone away. The gracious Countess had received the news with extraordinary indifference, was the verdict on the incident below stairs; Rosa was crying her eyes out, all the menservants went about cursing and swearing and threatening to kill some one, but the gracious Countess had not shed one tear. When she had heard Anton's report, she asked a few questions: what suit had the gracious Count put on? did he take an overcoat? what shoes did he wear? and so on; but never a tear. Then she said: "Very well, Anton, you may go!" and that was all. No! No! It was not natural. But then these great ladies! . . . One never knew!
No one ever did know to what height a mother's heroism could go. Elza, with her heart nearly broken, thought only of what was best for Philip.
"Of course, he has done nothing!" she reiterated over and over again, "so they can't do anything to him."
Then her voice would break on a note of pathetic appeal; she would seize Rosemary's hands and search the depths of her English friend's eyes, with the look of a poor stricken animal begging for sympathy.