Somehow it added to her horror to see, as she bent over her, that the unfortunate woman’s face was ever so thickly covered with some curious sort of paint or powder. It made her seem like a grotesque and horrible marionette.
“She’s old!” thought Lexy. “She’s terribly, terribly old!”
She drew back her hand, for she could not touch that painted face. She didn’t fail in generous pity, but she could not overcome an instinctive repugnance. She turned around, intending to call the parlor maid, and there was Dr. Quelton striding down the long room with a glass in his hand. Without even glancing at Lexy, he stooped over his wife, raised her limp head on one arm, and put the glass to her lips. She drank the contents, and lay back again, with her eyes closed. Almost at once the color began to return to her ashen cheeks. Her arms quivered, and then she opened her eyes and looked up at him with a faint, dazed smile.
“You’re better now,” he said.
“Better!” she repeated. “But you were late! I needed it—I needed it!”
“Come, now!” he said indulgently. “The faintness has passed. Now you must go up to your room and rest a little before tea.”
She rose, and to Lexy’s surprise her movements showed no trace of weakness. Then, turning her head, she caught sight of the girl, and her face lighted with pleasure.
“Miss Moran!” she cried. “How very nice to—”
“Miss Moran will wait, I’m sure,” the doctor interrupted. “You must rest for half an hour, Muriel.”
Taking her by the arm, he led her down the room. In the doorway she looked back and smiled at her visitor; and if anything had been needed to steel Lexy’s heart against the doctor, that smile on his wife’s face would have done it—that poor, plaintive little smile.