Madame Floriot's face told its own story of remorse and suffering. The cheeks had lost their smooth, lovely contour and the dark clouds under the beautiful eyes spoke of nights spent in tears. The eyes themselves were now dilated as she gripped the maid's arms until she hurt her and gazed into her face with searching dread.
"My boy! Raymond!" she gasped, brokenly. "Is it true—has he been ill?"
The maid gently disengaged herself from the clinging arms and glanced uneasily at the library door. Madame Floriot followed the look and moved quickly forward as the maid answered: "For more than two weeks, madame."
The woman timidly pushed the door open and stepped into the library. She gave a quick gasp of relief when she saw that the room was empty.
"I only heard of—it—yesterday—by accident," she half-whispered, her hand at her throat. Then as the memory of the hours of grief and dread swept over her she cried:
"Rose, I must see him!"
The maid looked her alarm.
"Monsieur Floriot is with him, madame!"
"Ah—h!" she stifled a sob.
"Poor little chap!" said Rose, tenderly. "We thought he could never get over it!"