“Miss Cahoon? Hephzy? Have you sent for her?”
My tone of surprise startled her, I think. She looked at me.
“Sent for her?” she repeated. “Isn't she here—in Paris?”
“She is in Interlaken, at the Victoria. Didn't the concierge tell you?”
“He told us she was not here, at this hotel, at present. He said she had gone away with some friends. But we took it for granted she was in Paris. I told them I would stay until she came. I—”
I interrupted.
“Stay until she comes!” I repeated. “Stay—! Why you can't do that! You can't! You must not!”
“Hush! hush! Remember you are ill. Think of yourself!”
“Of myself! I am thinking of you. You mustn't stay here—with me. What will they think? What—”
“Hush! hush, please. Think! It makes no difference what they think. If I had cared what people thought I should not be singing at—Hush! you must not excite yourself in this way.”