I sat for a minute or two, trying to think over the long tragedy that he had summed up in so few words, and wondering where Anthony Pendennis was. Surely he should have been here with his wife and daughter; and yet no one had mentioned him, and I had had no opportunity of asking about him,—had, in fact, forgotten his very existence till these last few minutes.
But consecutive thought was impossible, and I gave up the attempt, as I stumbled to the couch and fell fast asleep.
CHAPTER XLIV
AT VASSILITZI’S
Into my dreams came voices that I knew, speaking in French, in low tones which yet reached my ears distinctly.
“I think we should tell him; it is not right, or just, to keep him in ignorance.”
“No,—no,—we must not tell him; we must not!” Anne said softly, but vehemently. “We shall need him so sorely,—there are so very few whom we can really trust. Besides, why should we tell him? It would break his heart! For remember, we do not know.”
They were not dream voices, but real ones, and as I found that out, I felt I’d better let the speakers,—Anne and Loris,—know I was awake; for I’d no wish to overhear what they were saying, especially as I had a queer intuition that they were talking of me. So I sat up under the fur rug some one had thrown over me, and began to stammer out an apology in English.