"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Where is she?"
"At Eastbourne."
"Is—is it serious?"
"Very serious. They—" the words stuck in her throat—"they are operating now. She wished to see you. She was talking of you to me this morning—"
She was interrupted by the entrance of a third person, a woman who came in without knocking, a woman, pretty beneath her paint, with curiously hard blue eyes. She stared at Alexandra with open hostility and then looked interrogatively at Lambert.
"This lady has come up from Eastbourne," he hesitated. "My wife is ill and wants to see me."
After a momentary silence the newcomer allowed herself a trifling shrug of the shoulders.
"She has been ill before," she said a little contemptuously, and turned to Alexandra. "What is it this time? A bilious attack?"
Alexandra looked at her steadily, perhaps disdainfully. She guessed she had to do with Mary Mantel, the woman who had displaced Mrs. Lambert in her husband's affections.
"We fear she is dying," was her rejoinder.