Instantly Mrs. de Vere flung herself full length upon the floor, screaming and kicking in hysteria.
Norman de Vere picked up Sweetheart in his arms and strode to the door. He expected to find several frightened servants listening, and he was not mistaken.
“Your mistress is ill. Go in and attend to her at once,” he said to the French maid, whom he detected among them.
“Oui, monsieur,” answered Finette, with a courtesy of her capped head.
Then she ran in to her mistress, and Norman de Vere went up the broad, shallow stairs toward the sleeping apartments, still carrying the child.
A dim light burned in the upper hall. He knocked several times at a door near the head of the staircase, and presently a drowsy voice, sounding as if muffled among pillows, inquired:
“Who is that? What do you want?”
“It is Norman, mother. Can I see you, please?”
“Of course, my son;” and in a few moments the door opened and an elderly lady in a dressing-gown invited him in.