“How did he seem?” Madame enquired, with a shade of interest, almost eagerness, in her manner. “Was he very depressed?”
Claire shook her head, thankful for the twilight.
“He seemed very much as usual,” she answered; “if anything a little nicer. I enjoyed my day very much. The only thing I felt was that I was neglecting you.”
Madame made a faint gesture of denial.
“I am very glad to think that you had such a happy day, dear,” she said. “I am glad you came in for a moment, though. I don’t know why it is, but to-night I have nerves. Where is your uncle?”
“Working away as usual at his Chinese manuscripts,” Claire replied. “He went to London this morning and came back at five o’clock.”
Madame nodded.
“I saw the car go with him and bring him back. I don’t know how it is, but the sight of every one to-day makes me uneasy. Even Bertram seemed queer. He sat with me for an hour this afternoon. As a rule he soothes me. To-day, somehow or other, he frightened me. I feel as though there were a sort of psychological thunder in the air.”
“Aunt, you mustn’t let yourself imagine such foolish things,” Claire begged. “Everything and every one is as usual. Uncle, as a matter of fact, was in remarkably good spirits this evening.”
“Can any one help fancies and presentiments, my dear, who lies here hour after hour, day by day, as I do,” Madame sighed. “I know it is silly, but instinct is stronger than reason, and Bertram, at any rate, was strange to-day. Every now and then he left off talking and there seemed to be something always behind his eyes.”