"No more do I!" she said fiercely. "I told him—and he doesn't care. He doesn't care!"
Her lips shook; her breast heaved; she hid her face in her hands.
"Oh, Louis, Louis, he's dead! And I said I didn't want to see him ever again!"
His hand was on the arm of her chair. "I'm so sorry," he said below his breath, guarding his tongue.
She had clutched his hand and dragged herself to her feet. She was clinging to him almost, crying her heart out.
"I know," she said at last, "I know you care."
He trembled violently. In another minute he would have drawn her to him; he would have said the stupid, unutterable word. The thing had passed beyond his control. It had not happened by his will. She was Tyson's wife. Yes; and this was the third time he had been thrust into Tyson's place. Why was he always to be with or near this woman in these moments, in the throes of her mortal agony, in the divine passion of her motherhood, and now—?
Did she know? Did she know? She stopped crying suddenly, like a startled child. She looked down at the hand she held and frowned at it, as if it puzzled her.
The door opened. She loosed her hold and went from him, brushing past the astonished Pinker in her flight.