“Oh, heavenly powers, the man must be mad to come here. Cecil will murder him,” she muttered, in terror. “But I was right. It is the child, as my heart foreboded. That woman must be dead, or she would not have been brought here.”
She opened the door and went in, a pale, handsome, haughty old lady in black silk, before whose severe aspect John Keith, sensitive as ever, recoiled in dismay.
“You wished to see me, sir?” frigidly.
“I beg your pardon. There is some mistake,” he faltered.
“There is no mistake, I am Mrs. Laurens,” impatiently.
“Then you are Cecil Laurens’ mother?”
“Yes.”
“I wished to see Mrs. Cecil Laurens!”
She recoiled from him in anger and reproach.
“How can you speak that name here?” she exclaimed. “You of all men ought to know that there is no longer a Mrs. Cecil Laurens! Or, perhaps, you think my son has married again?”