“How often have you seen him?”
“Oh!... I don’t know—exactly....”
“Won’t it satisfy you if I never have him here again?” she cried. “Or anybody else, ever?”
“No. I want you to have him here again. I want to see him.”
Rosaleen looked at that impassive wolfish face, at those black eyes scrutinizing her behind their eyeglasses, and a profound distrust came over her. In that instant, for the first time, she questioned the motives of her benefactress; she doubted her goodness. Instead of duty in her glance, she saw malice. Never, never, if she could possibly help it, should Miss Amy and Nick Landry come face to face.
She relapsed into what Miss Amy called a “sullen silence,” but which was in reality only a desperate silence. There sat that woman on her bed, formulating God knows what plans against her. She was so helpless! She lay back on her pillow, as if she were bound hand and foot, her soft hair spread about her, her face stony with despair, the very picture of a maiden victim.
“I am sorry you forgot yourself to such an extent,” observed Miss Amy, and rose. “Get up now and dress; it’s late.”
Rosaleen sprang out of bed.
“What can I possibly tell him?” she cried to herself. “He’ll want to come again, of course.... What can I tell him?”