Doris said nothing. She fell back slowly in her chair, looking at the tall woman standing over her. Tears came into her eyes—brimmed—overflowed—in silence. Her lips smiled. Rachel Dunstable bent over her in bewilderment.
"To have a son," murmured Doris under her breath, "and then to see him ruined like this! No love for him!—no children—no grandchildren for oneself, when one is old—"
Her voice died away.
"'To have a son'?" repeated Lady Dunstable, wondering—"but you have none!"
Doris said nothing. Only she put up her hand feebly, and wiped away the tears—still smiling. After which she shut her eyes.
Lady Dunstable gasped. Then the long, sallow face flushed deeply. She walked over to a sofa on the other side of the room, arranged the pillows on it, and came back to Doris.
"Will you, please, let me put you on that sofa? You oughtn't to have had this long journey. Of course you will stay here—and Miss Wigram too. It seems—I shall owe you a great deal—and I could not have expected you—to think about me—at all. I can do rude things. But I can also—be sorry for my sins!"
Doris heard an awkward and rather tremulous laugh. Upon which she opened her eyes, no less embarrassed than her hostess, and did as she was told. Lady Dunstable made her as comfortable as a hand so little used to the feminine arts could manage.
"Now I will send you in some luncheon, and go and talk to Lord
Dunstable. Please rest till I come back."
* * * * *