She could scarcely believe her eyes as she saw a subheading—“Interview with Sir Robert Rawson”—over a few brief paragraphs revealing the astounding fact that Sir Robert himself had authorized and endorsed the publication!
She was still brooding painfully over this revelation when she reached her destination—the big, comfortable suburban house she had left as a bride such a few days before, that now seemed like a lifetime.
The trim maid who opened the door uttered a little compassionate exclamation.
“Oh, miss—I mean, ma’am—isn’t it dreadful? And how ill you look! Madam’s in the drawing-room. Shall I pay the cab?”
“No. Ask him to wait,” said Grace, though why she said so she did not know.
She went swiftly through the hall, entered the drawing-room, and closed the door behind her.
Her mother was seated by the fire—a remarkably pretty woman, with fair hair and turquoise-blue eyes, who looked younger than her daughter to-day, for Grace, white checked and hollow eyed, had aged visibly during these terrible hours.
“Mother!” she said piteously.
Mrs. Armitage rose, throwing down the newspaper she had been absorbed in—an earlier edition of the one Grace still clutched—and came towards her daughter.