Catherine was sitting there, like some expressionless Byzantine Madonna, with Carter in her arms. He was sleeping, his flushed face and tousled yellow hair against her breast, his legs dangling limply from her lap. There was no one else in the room. Catherine looked up as Stacey entered, but she did not speak.
He stared at her. “Phil?” he demanded in a low voice.
The shadowy expression on her face deepened until it was unmistakable pain and fatigue, but still she did not speak.
“Dead?” Stacey cried hoarsely.
“Yes,” she replied gently, “he died last night—very peacefully.”
Stacey sat down suddenly and turned his head away. Tears did not come to his eyes, but he gasped, a choking feeling in his throat that made it hard for him to breathe.
“Poor Stacey!” said Catherine softly, after a little.
“Poor me?!” he exclaimed, “oh! . . . I only got your telegram an hour ago.”
“Of course. I knew you couldn’t have got it.”
Stacey became aware of the sound of feet moving on the floor above. “Who’s—up there?” he inquired.