She glanced at the letter on the table but made no movement to touch it. Then she saw that her husband’s face was reddening and that his arm waved helplessly. His eyes, deprived abruptly of all the fury of conflict, implored assistance.
She darted to the French window that opened into the dining-room from the balcony. “Doctor Greve!” she cried. “Doctor Greve!”
Behind her the patient was making distressful sounds. “Doctor Greve,” she screamed, and from above she heard the Bavarian shouting and then the noise of his coming down the stairs.
He shouted some direction in German as he ran past her. By an inspiration she guessed he wanted the nurse.
Miss Summersley Satchell appeared in the doorway and became helpful.
Then everyone in the house seemed to be converging upon the balcony.
It was an hour before Sir Isaac was in bed and sufficiently allayed for her to go to her own room. Then she thought of Mr. Brumley’s letter, and recovered it from the table on the balcony where it had been left in the tumult of her husband’s seizure.
It was twilight and the lights were on. She stood under one of them and read with two moths circling about her....
Mr. Brumley had had a mood of impassioned declaration. He had alluded to his “last moments of happiness at Kew.” He said he would rather kiss the hem of her garment than be the “lord of any other woman’s life.”
It was all so understandable—looked at in the proper light. It was all so impossible to explain. And why had she let it happen? Why had she let it happen?