French in silence handed him the telegram. Roger disengaged himself and walked to the fireplace, standing motionless, with his back to them, for a minute, while they held their breaths. Then he began to grope again for his hat, without a word.
"Come home with me, Roger!" implored his mother, pursuing him. "We must bear it—bear it together. You see—she didn't suffer"—she pointed to the message—"the darling!—the darling!"
Her voice lost itself in tears. But Roger brushed her away, as though resenting her emotion, and made for the door.
French also put out a hand.
"Roger, dear, dear old fellow! Stay here with us—with your mother. Where are you going?"
Roger looked at his watch unsteadily.
"The office will be closed," he said to himself; "but I can put some things together."
"Where are you going, Roger?" cried Lady Barnes, pursuing him. Roger faced her.
"It's Tuesday. There'll be a White Star boat to-morrow."
"But, Roger, what can you do? She's gone, dear—she's gone. And before you can get there—long before—she will be in her grave."