Violet closed her fingers tight upon the telegram, for her companion’s prolixity was growing unendurable, and she wanted quietness to realize what had befallen her. The firelight had died away, and, now her senses were rallying, she could not read the message. Then a faint flicker sprang up again, and Hester, glancing round, saw the tension in her face.
“You’re not listening,” she said. “Why, what is the matter? Isn’t Lily coming?”
Violet rose up with a curious slow movement, and her face showed almost as pallid as the white marble of the mantle she leaned against. Then a little quiver ran through her, and the fingers of one hand trembled upon the stone.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Let me be quiet for a moment, Hester!”
Hester rose, and laid a hand restrainingly upon her arm. “Can’t you tell me? What has gone wrong?”
Violet let the telegram fall, and turned a cold, still face towards her.
“Tony is dead,” she said, and sank back, shivering, into her chair.
“Oh,” said Hester, “I am so sorry!”
The words were sincere enough, but just then the conventionality of them appeared incongruous, and when Violet made no answer Hester picked up the telegram and held it near the fire.
“Anthony Palliser killed in action, Santa Marta, Cuba. Particulars personally. Sailing New York Saturday, Bernard Appleby,” she read.