When the last good-night had been uttered, when the echo of the carriage wheels had died away in the distance, the young man turned back into the house.
His mother and his wife were going up the broad stairway to their rooms. He called them back.
“I wish to speak with you in the library,” he said.
His face was so white, his eyes so stern that they followed him in awe-struck silence. He locked the door and placed chairs for both.
Beautiful Camille began to grow a little frightened. She cried out, half defiantly:
“I wish you would wait till morning, Norman. I am tired and sleepy.”
She flung herself indolently back in her chair, with her white arms upraised over her head, yawning lazily.
Her husband paid no attention to her complaint. He had fallen on one knee before his mother. He lifted her soft, white hand to his lips.
“Mother, I have deeply wronged you. Forgive me!” he exclaimed.
“My son,” she faltered.