In the night the last yellow down had fallen from the palm upon the floor.
The common voice of the tin clock struck seven. And with it came women's voices—women's voices on the landing outside the door—the voice of the concierge and another's.'
Some instinct, some strange warning, sent the sleeper on the bed flying from it, dazed as she was. Snatching at the initialled cup of gold veining she thrust it behind the curtain on the window sill. An act of panic merely, for a second glance round the room convinced her that there was too much to be hidden, if hidden anything should be. With a leap she was back in bed, and drew the bedclothes up to her neck.
Then came the knock at the door.
"I am in bed," she called.
"Nevertheless, can I come in?" asked the concierge.
"You may come in."
The young woman came in and closed the door after her. She approached the bed and whispered—then glancing round the room with a shrug she picked up a dressing-gown and held it that Fanny might slip her arms into it.
"But what a time to come!"
"She has travelled all night. She is unfit to move."