Pauws stepped briskly to the bed, took Lot's hand; then he remained quite still for at least an hour. Hugh had gone. For at least an hour Pauws sat without speaking. It seemed that Lot had fallen asleep. He woke after that long silence and said:
"Mamma telegraphed to you ..."
"Two days ago. I came at once. You didn't know me...."
"Did you ... speak to Mamma?"
"No."
"Have you seen her?"
"No. The servant told me the day before yesterday, when I went away, that they would let me know at the hotel if there was any change in you. Yesterday, when I called, you were asleep.... But where's Elly?"
"Don't you know?..."
"How should I know?"
Lot had closed his eyes again and old Mr. Pauws sat silent, asking no more questions, with Lot's hand in his. Once more there was a long, throbbing silence. Old Pauws looked round the room, casting his quick glance here and there, breathing again because Lot was not going to die.... He had never been inside the house before. He had not seen Ottilie for years and years. Nor had she shown herself this time. Nevertheless he had heard her voice, hushed immediately, behind a door; and the sound of that voice, that voice of the old days, had moved him violently.... She had grown old, no doubt; but that voice behind the door was the same voice, the voice of Ottilie, his wife! Oh, what a sweet, pretty creature she was when he married her, a girl just turned twenty, and how happy they had been, in spite of an occasional angry word, in Java, with their two children: little Ottilie first and then Lot!... Only a few years; and then ... and then she had met that bounder Trevelley, the father of the boy whom he had just seen, with his damned English mug, a mug that was like his father's. And since then he had never seen her again! How long was that ago? He reckoned it out: it was thirty-four years! His little Ottilie was a girl of six then, Lot a little chap of four: two such loves of children, such dear, pretty children!... At the divorce, the custody of the children was awarded to him, not her; but Lot was so fond of his mother and he had consented, after some years, that they should stay on with their mother: she remained their mother, in spite of what she had done.... Little Ottilie had spent a very long time with him sometimes; Lot, on the other hand, would be longer with his mother: it was a constant going to and fro for the poor mites, who had no fixed home in which to live with their parents. Still, he had always gone on seeing his children and keeping in touch with them; and he admired little Ottilie, because she grew into big Ottilie and became very handsome; but he had always doted on Lot, though he was such a frail little fair-haired chap—perhaps for that very reason—and because he was really so ridiculously like his mother.... There the poor fellow lay. Where was his wife? Where was Elly?