"—She fell—and—" she began to weep bitterly, "she just said, 'The children—my brother—telephone—' and that was all—" and that piteous child who was no kindred to my poor sister sobbed convulsively.
That must have been about the time when I was at table with Dibdin and, over the sauterne, complaining to him of the narrowness of my income in view of the lacunæ and wants of my library.
"We couldn't—get you—on the telephone," she found breath to utter at last. "So I brought the children here—Hattie told me how to go—Hattie's over there alone."
Nothing in this world can ever stab me again as the poignancy of her recital stabbed me. My life seemed shattered, irreparable. All my dreams were at an end. Laura was gone and here were her children thrust by destiny upon my hands—unless their scoundrel of a father should ever return to relieve me of them. I had lived peacefully and harmlessly in my way, but for some inscrutable reason Fate had selected me for her heaviest blow.
"Very well," I told her as kindly as I could in the conditions, "now you go back to Griselda and go to bed. I'll have to think things out."
"Oh—but the house!" exclaimed the little girl—and never again do I wish to see such horror on a childish countenance as at that instant froze the features of little Alicia. "All alone," she added, her thin shoulders heaving. "Aren't you going over now, sir?"
"Now!" I exclaimed, looking automatically at my watch. "Why—yes—in a few minutes, child."
"But—Hattie is there alone—" she stammered. "There's nobody else—then I'd better go back."
It was obvious, of course, that I must go at once. But why should a child see spontaneously that to which I am obtuse?
"Oh, well, you are right, of course—I must go immediately—I hadn't thought—I'll go over now"—and I turned away from her, lifted the curtain and gazed out into the wet, murky street below. Life had collapsed and the ruins of it were tumbled about my hot ears. I hardly know how long I stood there, completely oblivious of the girl Alicia.