“Madame Trelawney was out,” Madame Leroux explained. “She and Monsieur. But Madame Travers? Yes, Madame was at home. She should be told that Monsieur awaited her.”
He was shown into the salon, a primitive, stone-flagged little place. It was filled with cool, green light, that filtered through the vine leaves round its window. Out in the glaring sunshine, a yellow dog lay sleeping, stretched across the garden path. There was no other sign of life. The stillness grew intolerable. Carey rose and stood by the window in the hope of feeling a breath of air, and heard his heart beating in muffled throbs.
The door suddenly opened. He turned with an effort, and saw that it was Bridget who stood there; but he dared not look at her. She wore a white dress, he noticed, and slowly he raised his eyes to her face. It was almost as white as her gown.
She closed the door softly behind her, and came and stood before him.
He did not move.
“Well?” he said at last. He had framed the word several times, but could not utter it.
“I want to talk to you,” she said, below her breath. “Larry, my father is dead—I heard last night.”
His face changed. A look of exquisite relief flashed into his eyes, as he took a sudden step towards her.
“Poor child! poor little Bridget!” he murmured. “What an awful shock for you! No wonder—”
She put out her hand wildly to keep him away.