"Then, Miss Fairchild, I am afraid I am the bearer of very sad—"
As a leopardess might have sprung, she stood quivering above him, her eyes tragic, her slim fingers interlocked in a convulsive clasp before her.
"Quick!" she demanded in a tense whisper, "has anything happened to Mobley?"
"No, no; be assured. It was—"
"Oh, not Joyce?"
"General Westbrook."
She caught her breath sharply, and seemed unable to speak; and like a blind person, returned to her seat. But in a moment she was more tranquil and very earnest.
"Tell me plainly, Mr. Converse—is this the—the trouble?"
"It is bad enough, Miss Fairchild; the General is—dead."
"Dead! General Westbrook dead! Oh—" she checked herself, the back of one hand upon her lips, and waited.