With a sad little smile she kissed Madame, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. The old lady sighed as she went down with the tray, reflecting how impossible it is really to aid another, unless the barrier of silence be removed.
At four, she had her tea alone. No sound came from up-stairs, and Alden neither returned to luncheon nor sent word. When he came in, a little past six, he was tired and muddy, his face was strained and white, and, vouchsafing only the briefest answers to his mother's solicitude, went straight to his room.
Exactly upon the stroke of seven, both appeared, Alden in evening clothes as usual, and Edith in her black gown, above which her face was deathly white by contrast, in spite of the spangles. She wore no ornaments, not even the string of pearls about her bare throat.
"You look as though you were in mourning, my dear," said Madame. "Let me get you a red rose."
Things to Be Said
She started toward the veranda, but, with a little cry, Edith caught her and held her back. "No," she said, in a strange tone, "roses are—not for me!"
The dinner-gong chimed in with the answer, and the three went out together. Neither Alden nor Edith made more than a pretence of eating. Edith held her head high and avoided even his eyes, though more than once Madame saw the intensity of his appeal.
Afterward he took his paper, Madame her fancy work, and Edith, attempting to play solitaire, hopelessly fumbled her cards. Madame made a valiant effort to carry on a conversation alone, but at length the monologue wearied her, and she slipped quietly out of the room.
Edith turned, with a start, and hurriedly rose to follow her. Alden intercepted her. "No," he said, quietly. "There are things to be said between you and me."
"I thought," Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her, "that everything was said last night."