“Pray do not talk like that,” said the girl quietly.
Mrs. Harrington’s cold grey eyes fell before Eve’s glance of mingled wonder and contempt; her right hand was feebly plucking at the counterpane.
Far below, in the basement, a bell rang, and soon after there was a step on the stairs.
“Who is that?” inquired Mrs. Harrington.
“Fitz.”
The dying woman was looking at the door with an unwonted longing in her eyes.
“You seem to know his step,” she said, with a jealous laugh.
Eve said nothing. The door opened, and Fitz came in.
Mrs. Harrington was the first to speak.
“I am not well this morning, dear,” she said. “I sent for you because I have a few things I want you to do for me.”