A sharp rap. Yes, it was a child. Was it a little girl? Yes. Had it been dead long? Yes. More than ten years? Yes. More than twenty? Yes. Fifty? No. Forty? Yes.
Monsieur Leroy began to count, pausing after each number.
"Forty-one—forty-two—forty-three—forty-four—"
The sharp rap again. The Princess drew a quick breath.
"How old was it when it died?" she managed to ask.
Monsieur Leroy began to count again, beginning with one. At the word seven, the rap came. The Princess started violently, almost upsetting the table against her companion.
"Adelaide!" She cried in a broken voice.
One rap.
"Oh, my darling, my darling!"
The old woman bent down over the table, and her outspread hands tried frantically to take up the flat surface, and she kissed the polished wood passionately, again and again, not knowing what she did, nor hearing her own incoherent words of mixed joy and agony.