If she had hesitated outside the room to summon the courage to face the man who would demand so much of her, there was nothing in her manner when she entered to indicate that such had been the case. She approached him without a symptom of nervousness or irresolution. Her dark eyes met his without wavering, and there was purpose in them.
She devoted a single glance of surprise to the uncurtained window on entering the door, and an instant later scrutinised the floor with unmistakable interest, as if expecting to find something there to account for his motive in admitting the glare of light, something to confound and accuse her. But there was no fear in the look.
She had put on a rather plain white blouse, open at the neck. The cuffs were rolled up nearly to the elbows, evidence that she had been using her hands in some active employment and had either forgotten or neglected to restore the sleeves to their proper position. A chic black walking-skirt lent to her trim, erect figure a suggestion of girlishness.
Her arms hung straight down at her sides, limply it would have seemed at first glance, but in reality they were rigid.
“I have come, as I said I would,” she said, after a long, tense silence. Her voice was low, huskier than ever, but without a tremor of excitement. “You did not say you would wait for me here, but I knew you would do so. The hour of reckoning has come. We must pay, both of us. I am not frightened by your silence, James, nor am I afraid of what you may say or do. First of all, it is expected that Frederic will die. Dr Hodder has proclaimed it. He is a great surgeon. He ought to know. But he doesn't know—do you hear? He does not know. I shall not let him die.”
“One moment, if you please,” said her husband coldly. “You may spare me the theatrics. Moreover, we will not discuss Frederic. What we have to say to each other has little to do with that poor boy downstairs. This is your hour of reckoning, not his. Bear that———”
“You are very much mistaken,” she interrupted, her gaze growing more fixed than before. “He is a part of our reckoning. He is the one great character in this miserable, unlooked-for tragedy. Will you be so kind as to draw those curtains? And do me the honour to allow me to sit in your presence.”
There was infinite scorn in her voice. “I am very tired. I have not been idle. Every minute of my waking hours belongs to your son, James Brood, but I owe this half-hour to you. You shall know the truth about me, as I know it about you. I did not count on this hour ever being a part of my life, but it has to be, and I shall face it without weeping over what might have been. Will you draw the curtains?”
He hesitated a moment and then jerked the curtains together, shutting out the pitiless glare.
“Will you be seated there?” he said quietly, pointing to a chair at the end of the table.