Antony turned the pages between his fingers. The reading of the letter had smoothed the creases from his brow. He sighed as he lifted his head to say "Come in," for some one had knocked timidly at the door.
"Hello!" Fairfax said, and now that they were alone he called her "Aunt Caroline."
Madame Potowski came forward and kissed him.
He drew a big chair into the window. He was always solicitous of her and a little pitiful.
Madame Potowski's hair had been soft brown once; it was golden, frankly so, now, and her fine lips were a little rouged. In her dress of changeable silk, her cape of tulle, her hat with a bunch of roses, her tiny gloved hands, she was a very elegant little lady. She rested her hands on her parasol and had suggested his mother to Antony. Then, as that resemblance passed, came the fleeting suggestion which he never cared to hold—of Bella.
"I have come, my dear Tony, to see you. I wanted to see you alone."
Tony lit a cigar and sat by her side. The Comtesse Potowski had a little diamond watch with a chain on her breast. Outside the clock struck five.
"I have only a second to stay—my husband misses me if I am five minutes out of his sight."
"I do not wonder, Aunt Caroline."