“Hallo!” he said, without opening the connecting door. “Hallo, Priscilla, what are you about that you haven’t come down yet?”
He heard her voice say, “Jack, come to me—come,” but he scarcely knew the voice to be hers; it was the voice of a stranger.
He opened the door and passed through.
She was standing in the centre of the room, still in her travelling-dress—she had only taken off her hat.
“I say, what’s the matter?” he began at the moment of entering. But then he stood still, as she turned her face to him. “Good God! Priscilla—dearest, what is the matter? You are as pale as death.”
He thought that she was about to fall—she was swaying as a tall lily sways in a breath of air. He hurried to her and put his arm about her.
“My God! You are ill. You have been doing too much. You have been overdoing it at that beastly election, and this is the reaction. Pull yourself together, darling.”
She seemed trying to speak, but no word would come. She gasped. Her attempt to speak was choking her. At last she managed to make herself audible. Clutching at his shoulders rather wildly and with her face rigid, pushed forward close to his—with wild eyes and cheeks as pale as moonlight, she cried in gasps:
“Jack—Jack—my own Jack—my husband—swear to me that you will stand by me—that you will never leave me whatever may happen.”
“My darling! Calm yourself! Tell me what has happened.”