He was eager to get into the open air. The house seemed stifling.
The night breeze struck coolly on his heated brow as he let himself out at the back door and walked wearily toward a beautiful grove of orange-trees now in the full glory of blossom and fruit. Their tropical fragrance blended deliciously with the odor of Maréchal Neil roses that clambered over a picturesque summer-house near at hand.
He went inside and sunk heavily into a rustic chair.
“My God, and this is the home-coming to which I have looked forward so longingly for two long weeks!” he muttered, with a laugh that was half self-mockery, half despair. Then a moment later: “Why did I battle so eagerly for life that night? Was it worth it?”
CHAPTER VI.
When Norman de Vere turned away from his wife’s door the maid locked it quickly, and crossed the room to the bedside of her mistress.
Mrs. de Vere had half risen from the luxurious nest of linen and lace, and with her wavy red locks falling backward like a veil, was leaning on her white elbow listening eagerly.
“He did not ask to see me, Finette?” she whispered, half longingly.
“Non, miladi—only about your health.”
“You told him I was asleep—that you were ordered to remain by me all night?”