“Go up-stairs,” he said gravely, without anger, in the remote tone of a man who no longer cared. “You’re worn out; you’ll take cold. I told you so before. Go up-stairs to bed. Shall I rouse Miranda? Do you need help?”
“Help?” she shivered, but not with cold. “Non, non! No help for me—here!”
As she spoke she turned, lifted the discarded glass of brandy to her lips, and drained it. Then, without looking at him again, she left the room.
The light was still on in the hall, but she felt her way to the stairs blindly. She was crying. She had not intended to lie to him, but it was so much easier than to tell the truth. She clung to the banisters for a moment, sobbing bitterly; then, dashing the tears from her eyes, she went on, aware that he was still standing motionless where she had left him.
As she dragged herself to the head of the stairs, she was suddenly aware of a figure in the upper hall. She stopped and looked around in a panic. She expected her father-in-law, but it was only Leigh.
“Are you safe?” he asked eagerly. “There’s been an accident—I knew it! You’ve been hurt, Fanchon?”
She looked at him in surprise.
“Where were you, Leigh?”
“I’ve been up all night. I knew William was, too, and I’ve waited.”
He was eighteen, but he looked younger, and his boyish face was white with anxiety. With a sudden impulse, Fanchon laid her hands on his shoulders.