She seemed to gather herself together; she swept round the table; came close to the woman in the armchair; bent to her; the dark burning eyes fixed the faded blue ones. "Tell me quick, I say,—I can bear no more."
"Aurora Googe, I sent word to you by Octavius Buzzby that I would not help your state's-prison bird—fledged from your nest, not mine,—"
She did not finish, for the woman she was torturing suddenly laid a hot hand hard and close, for the space of a few seconds, over those malevolent lips. Mrs. Champney drew back, turned in her chair and reached for the bell.
Aurora removed her hand.
"Stop there, you've said enough, Almeda Champney!" she commanded her. She pointed to the portrait over the fireplace. "By the love he bore my son—by the love we two women bore him—help—"
Mrs. Champney rose suddenly by great effort from her chair. The two women stood facing each other.
"Go—go!" she cried out shrilly, hoarsely; her face was distorted with passion, her hands were clenched and trembling violently, "leave my sight—leave my house—you—you ask me, by the love we bore Louis Champney, to save from his just deserts Louis Champney's bastard!"
Her voice rose to a shriek; she shook her fist in Aurora's face, then sank into her chair and, seizing the bell, rang it furiously.
Octavius darted forward, but stopped short when he heard Aurora's voice—low, dull, as if a sickening horror had quenched forever its life:
"You have thought that all these years?—O God!—Louis—Louis, what more—"