She had been waiting for him and he had filled the moments of his coming with brutal contempt and criticism of her.
The tearless sadness of her voice went on: "It is better for the word to go from you than from me." Her eyelids fell. "It will hurt Jack less. I would"—she lifted her eyes again and gave Page a look that his heart received as a pang. "I would gladly give my life if it could procure Jack one hour with his father, alive."
"I believe it sincerely," he answered.
The respect and sympathy of Page's tone seemed to impel her to further explanation. "It was terribly sudden and unexpected," she said. "No one—the doctor himself did not believe in the possibility of such a catastrophe. He was feeling so well for him. He was in the act of speaking of it when he sank back. His last word was 'happy.'"
She stood a moment, her eyelids dropped, in statuesque silence. Page watched her steady her tottering self-control.
"I had thought," she went on finally, "of a succession of cablegrams. Could it be broken to your cousin a little more gently, so?"
"Yes, that will be best."
"And may I ask you to send them, without regard to cost?"
"Certainly. What else can I do? I beg you to let me be useful to you in all ways that I can for Uncle Richard's sake."
"Thank you. I will give you the address of a neighbor, an old and dear friend of Mr. Van Tassel, who has been most kind. Perhaps he would be glad to consult with you."