The manager of the hotel drew near to express his condolences and to explain that he had assisted Mrs. Alison's maid in every way by telephoning for the best veterinary doctor in Knightsbridge. He had advised Mrs. Alison's being communicated with by telegram as soon as the animal's serious condition was obvious. Yesterday it had seemed unnecessary to summon Mrs. Alison back from the country. Of course, if he had known then that the illness was likely to terminate fatally he should have done so. He appreciated what the loss of such a pet meant. Only this summer his wife had lost a pet cockatoo, and she had been quite inconsolable for two days. One did not expect a cockatoo to die suddenly. One always thought of them as living forever. He was sorry that it had not been possible to keep the dead cat in the hotel, but Mrs. Alison would understand that it might be liable to create an unpleasant impression upon the other guests. So many people dreaded influenza in any shape. It was with the deepest regret that he had ordered the remains to be taken away; but he was sure that the sight of the poor little dead animal would have been a grief for Mrs. Alison. Could he send anything up to her room? It was early for tea; but, after her journey and the sad news, perhaps Mrs. Alison would like her tea early.
"We shall return to Paris to-night," said Mary. "Go and pack my things, Célestine. I do not wish to go upstairs to my room. I shall take a little walk in the Gardens by myself. By myself."
It was an afternoon of silver frost and sunshine under a pale blue December sky. The walks of Kensington Gardens were thronged with children whose vivid laughter made Mary feel of less account in the human scene than one of the skeleton leaves lying on a bed of last year's flowers. She tried to escape from the sounds of youth and merriment; but wherever she walked the air was full of laughter, the crystalline air tinkled with laughter.
Had Pierrette wanted her at the end? Had she failed the one living creature in the whole world that might have looked to her? Question for evermore unanswerable, regret for evermore unquenchable, longing for evermore unappeasable!
She had not felt able to revisit the room where she had left Pierrette sitting so cosily by the fire, when she set out to Gloucestershire; and yet she had been able to decide to go back to the house in Paris which without Pierrette would seem emptier, vaster, lonelier than ever.
If now she could pray!
For what?
For mercy upon her old age.
For something to lead her out of the shadows.
Darling little cat! Not ever again to feel those silken chocolate paws. Not ever again to hear that deep miaow, nor behold those unyielding eyes of blue, nor watch that absurd tail respond to her lightest murmur on the assumption that any sound uttered in an empty room was intended for herself.