“Constance!”
He flung himself, distractedly, desperately, with a wild impulse, into her arms; bursting into sobs, he buried his head in her breast. She started violently; she felt his convulsive tremors against her heart. Then she threw her arm around him, stroked his hair. It was as though she were comforting her son.
“I am mad, I am mad!” he muttered.
He released himself, hurriedly pressed a quivering kiss on her forehead and tore down the stairs. And, when she went down to her drawing-room, she suddenly heard the front-door slam and saw him bicycling away like a madman, his back arched like a professional’s. He pedalled, pedalled furiously: she watched him lose himself ... in movement, speed and space ...
“Poor boy!” she thought.
Then she sank into a chair, while the room swam round her. She closed her eyes and her hands fell limply at her side. So she sat for half an hour, unconscious, alone ... as if the new life had been too keen, too intense, with its pure air, its honesty ... too rare and keen in its cold-blue ether ... and as if she were swooning away in it....
Chapter XXVII
She came to herself with a start and did not know whether she had been unconscious or asleep. At the same moment, she heard the bell and through the curtain she saw Brauws, standing outside the door.
“It is he, it is he!” an exultant voice cried inside her.