“I think you had better go away,” was all he said. “I might do you an injury.”
For a moment she was transfixed, then she rose to her feet, and turned slowly to the door. Here she paused a moment.
“I will tell them you are not well, and do not want any lunch,” she said. “Later on I will come back.”
After lunch Mrs Blake rose quickly from the table, and went toward the door. Gwen was immediately in a fever of anxiety. What should she do? In desperation she put a detaining hand upon the mother’s arm:
“You—you—are not going to Lawrence?” she stammered.
“My dear,” answered Mrs Blake, “didn’t you say he was not well?”
“I know—I know—but—indeed, it would be better to leave him alone for a little.” Mrs Blake regarded her with surprise. “I don’t understand you,” she said a little haughtily. “I only wish to see if I can do anything for him.”
“He said he did not want to be disturbed,” murmured poor Gwen distractedly.
“My dear, I am his mother,” and Mrs Blake passed out of the room.
Gwen stood a moment watching her cross the hall with a fascinated gaze, and then suddenly darted across to the drawing-room, and burying her face in a sofa-cushion burst into tears, to the unutterable consternation of her faithful giant, who followed immediately, and had much ado to soothe her. They were startled presently by the sound of a door being violently slammed, as only a man could slam it, and then halting footsteps approached the hall. Gwen went to the door, but drew back horror-struck. Mrs Blake was going toward the stairs, and her face was the colour of a corpse. She looked as if she were dazed and petrified. Then Kathleen, who had been waiting nervously in the dining-room, crossed quickly to her with open arms, and a little cry of, “Mother! Mother! what is it?—are you ill?”