But Stacey gave him only a moment of thought. His eyes were searching the room for Mrs. Latimer. And presently he found her—a wrecked huddled figure on a couch just opposite him. Her face was hidden among the cushions; only her hair, her dark dress, and one clenched hand were visible.
Stacey took a step forward. “Mrs. Latimer,” he said.
She sat up with a gasp; but it was her husband who spoke. “Who is there?” he called sharply, pausing and gazing toward Stacey.
“It is Stacey Carroll, sir.”
Mr. Latimer stiffened. “This is no time for you to come to this house,” he said coldly. “You should know that. I do not wish to see you.”
“No,” Stacey replied. “But I came to see Mrs. Latimer—unless she would prefer not to have me.”
The woman on the couch leaned forward. “Oh, yes, Stacey!” she cried, in a tone that went to his heart. He was sure of himself now; he was indifferent to what Mr. Latimer might say.
The older man stood there, erect in the lamplight, handsome, implacable, but to Stacey non-existent. “Either you or I, Carroll, must leave this house,” he said haughtily. “Both of us—”
But at this Mrs. Latimer had sprung to her feet, tottering a little. “Then,” she cried, in a tense voice that told Stacey much, “it must be you, Herbert! I wish to see Stacey. Oh,” she murmured weakly, but with relief, “and Catherine—you’ve come! How—good!” And she sank down again upon the couch.
As Stacey moved toward her he, too, for a moment thought of Catherine. He knew well how shy, how retiring, even how shrinking she was by nature; yet all through this brief unpleasant scene he had felt her standing there, gently strong, not wincing.