Virginia’s hand fell at her side. For a moment she looked at him in silence; then she turned.
“Come,” she said in a low voice.
William followed her up the wide old stairs, moving slowly, only aware of the humiliation he felt. After ascending the last flight Virginia stood before an open door and beckoned. He came to her side.
“Listen!” she whispered.
“William!”
He started. He knew the voice—it was Fanchon’s.
“William!” she called again, and the light, hurrying voice went on—sometimes in French, sometimes in English, but always repeating the cry, “William!”
“It’s like that all day,” said Virginia. “She calls and calls you. It’s pitiful, William, and it’s beautiful—she loves you so!”
He raised his dull eyes slowly from the floor to Fanchon’s face. What he saw there made him draw a deep breath of pain.
He stepped into the room. The light was dim, but he saw the face on the pillow and the soft, dark, wildly disheveled hair. Fanchon lay there, tossing, moving her hands restlessly, her fawn-like eyes brilliant and vacant, her small white face tear-stained, and her lips moving, whether words came or not.