Claudine remained for a moment in the drawing-room.
“He’ll go back to Edna,” she said to herself. “I’m glad.... He’ll do as well as anyone else. He’s kind. And rather attractive.... She won’t expect too much.”
§ ii
She was just falling asleep that night, after having seen Andrée comfortably settled. She was mortally weary, unable even to think. She had a light burning low, as was her reprehensible custom, and she had a book beside her, in case she could not sleep. But, in spite of her trouble, the murmur of the night wind soothed her, and the air blowing across her face. She had closed her eyes, and a blissful numbness was stealing over her, when she was startled by Andrée’s voice.
“Mother!” she cried. “Mother!”
She was instantly wide awake. Andrée stood beside her, like a spectre in the dim light, in her night dress and her dark hair about her shoulders.
“I want Alfred!” she said. “Oh, Mother ...! I began to think—”
Claudine took her dressing-gown from the foot of the bed and laid it about her child’s shoulders.
“I’ve been so wicked!” she went on. “It frightens me! I want Al back! I want to see his kind face.... He’s so kind and so good! I want to go home to him! I want just him—and this baby. Please, please send for him!”
“I will, pet, as soon as it’s morning!”