When he came to himself, Alvin was supporting him, and giving him something from a teacup. The fire was extinguished, and the only light was that of the lantern.
“It’s all right,” said Alvin cheerfully—“a deuce of a mess, that’s all. When you are through with this whisky, you will come back with me. We can make you comfortable, and I will send Pierre to take charge of this place.”
Philip could only gasp his thanks.
Almost in a dream, he once more crossed the field to the White House, but coming up to the garden gate he was roused into wakefulness. There were lights in the rooms downstairs, and there were voices. Aimée’s was one, he distinguished it, and it was the sound of it that brought him to the full possession of his senses.
The women had heard Philip’s call. They had heard his explanation to Alvin. They had dressed and come down to prepare for the guest that their instinct told them would come.
A wood fire was crackling and sending up myriads of gay sparks in the dining-room. Lamps had been relighted, and Mattie (without cap and apron) was laying a cold repast.
Mrs. Le Breton was upstairs with Faith preparing a bedroom.
Alvin, having drawn up an easy chair for Philip near the fire, went away to remove the effects of his work with soap and water.
Philip was left alone with Eweretta.
To his amazement she did not ply him with questions. All the women he knew would have done this. She quietly (how quietly!) moved here and there, performing little womanly tasks for the general comfort. One of the lamps (hastily lighted) smoked a little. She put it right. She rearranged things on the table that the sleepy Mattie had laid awry. She got out decanters from the sideboard.