Dora succeeded in mastering her emotion, and fixing Gabrielle with a strange, half-haggard gaze, she said—
"You must not believe a word of what I have said; you don't, do you? And now, I must go to Eva. The dear child will be so delighted to know you are here."
She threw herself into her sister's arms and kissed her tenderly several times.
Gabrielle stood petrified. She had long guessed that there was no more happiness in her sister's home, but she had not had the least idea that things had gone so far as to lead Dora to despise Philip. Gabrielle had always felt a mixture of love and admiring respect for her sister; in her estimation, Dora was the ideal woman; so much superior to all the other women she had known, that she could not believe that the pedestal upon which she had placed her could possibly crumble to atoms.
Dora returned after a few minutes. She seemed uneasy, still more upset than she had been when she left the drawing-room.
"Eva is asking for you," she said to Gabrielle; "she complains of sore throat now, and appears to be feverish, but I hope it is nothing worse than a cold coming. Go and sit with the dear child. If she should grow worse during the evening, send for the doctor at once. I trust her to your hands."
Kissing Gabrielle once more, she tried to smile, and added—
"Don't distress yourself about me. I shall be able to join you presently. General Sabaroff has, I hope, enough tact to make him feel the awkwardness of the situation. He will retire at once. There, go now, dear."
Dora, as soon as Gabrielle had left the drawing-room, was seized with an intangible terror. Doubt and uncertainty had undermined her spirits. She no longer felt her usual dauntless courage. She was afraid of being alone, afraid of the unknown, afraid of the man who, at any moment, might enter the room; but, above all, was her thought for the child. "My poor little treasure! going to be ill perhaps!" A horrible thought flashed across her mind and wrung a cry from her lips. "Oh, no, no, my God, not that! no, not if there is justice in heaven!" Calming herself with an effort, she went on, "Ah, if it was not for the child, I would leave this house to-day, I would go no matter where, take a few brushes, and earn my bread with them. It would be hard if I could not turn my work to some account and lead a life independent of everyone. Oh to live anywhere, to live anyhow, dear Heaven, rather than go on with this existence which revolts me and is crushing me! Oh, how lonely it is! how silent the house is! The very air chokes me—where is Philip now? What has happened that he is not here? What is he doing? Oh, my head burns so! I will send up for Gabrielle—no, she must stay with Eva. What to do? Send a telegram to Lorimer, and ask him to come quickly?—no, I should have to give explanations. Beg the General to excuse me; tell him I am not well and am obliged to retire."
She was interrupted in her reflections by the entrance of a servant who brought a telegram. Feverishly she broke open the envelope and read: "Missed nine o'clock train, started at noon, and will be with you at eight o'clock."