“Listen! Here is what he says: 'Come by the first steamer. I want you to come to me, Thérèse.' And see! It is signed 'Your husband.'”
“Hurray!” shouted the two old men.
“But,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “I shall not obey.”
“What! You—you won't go?” gasped Mr Riggs.
“No!” she cried, the ring of triumph in her voice. She suddenly clapped her hands to her breast and uttered a long, deep sigh of joy. “No, I shall not go to him.”
The old men stared helplessly while she sank luxuriously into a big chair and stuck her little feet out to the fire. They felt their knees grow weak under the weight of their suddenly inert bodies.
“He will come and unlock the door,” she went on serenely. “Ring for Jones, please.”
“Wha—what are you going to do?” Mr Dawes had the temerity to ask.
“Send a cablegram to my husband saying———”
She paused to smile at the flaming logs on the broad hearth, a sweet, rapturous smile that neither of the old men could comprehend.