Jean came to the villa a little before noon on the following day. Hilaire, who was in the library, heard his voice in the hall calling the dogs, heard him whistling some little song tune as he opened and shut all the doors one after the other.
“‘O l’amor e’ come un nocciuola
Se non se apre non si può mangiarla—’”
“Hilaire, where are you? I thought I should find you on the terrace this fine morning. Where is she?” he added eagerly as he laid a great bunch of roses down on the table. “Is her headache better? Has not she come down yet?”
He looked across the room to where his brother’s grey head just showed above the high carved back of his chair.
“Hilaire! Why don’t you answer?”
In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the grate; the beating of his own heart sounded loud to him. One of the dogs was scratching at the door and whining to be let in.
“Hilaire.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. She left this letter for you.”