Suzanne Jorancé pushed the swing-gate and entered the grounds of the Old Mill.
She was dressed in white and her face looked fresh and cool under a large hat of Leghorn straw, with its black-velvet strings hanging loose upon her shoulders. Her short skirt showed her dainty ankles. She walked with a brisk step, using a tall, iron-shod stick, while her disengaged hand crumpled some flowers which she had gathered on the way and which she dropped heedlessly as she went.
The Morestals' peaceful house was waking in the morning sun. Several of the windows were open; and Suzanne saw Marthe writing at the table in her bedroom.
She called out:
"Can I come up?"
But Mme. Morestal appeared at one of the windows of the drawing-room and made an imperious sign to her:
"Hush! Don't speak!"
"What's the matter?" asked Suzanne, when she joined the old lady.
"They're asleep."