Palmer winced as if Clélie had struck him. Then an expression of terror, of fear, came into his eyes. "You don't think she'd do that?" he muttered hoarsely.
"Certainly not," replied the young Frenchwoman. "I was simply trying to explain her. She dressed because she was unconscious of what she was doing. Real sorrow doesn't think about appearances." Then with quick tact she added: "Why should she kill herself? Monsieur Brent is getting well. Also, while she's a devoted friend of his, she doesn't love him, but you."
"I'm all upset," said Palmer, in confused apology.
He gazed fixedly at Susan—a straight, slim figure with the carriage and the poise of head that indicate self-confidence and pride. As he gazed Madame Clélie watched him with fascinated eyes. It was both thrilling and terrifying to see such love as he was revealing—a love more dangerous than hate. Palmer noted that he was observed, abruptly turned to face the fire.
A servant opened the doors into the dining-room, Madame
Délière rose. "Come, Susan," said she.
Susan looked at her with unseeing eyes.
"Dinner is served."
"I do not care for dinner," said Susan, seating herself at the piano.
"Oh, but you——"
"Let her alone," said Freddie, curtly. "You and I will go in."