In an absolutely still night a voice can travel very far. On the highest terrace of the garden in the blackness of the pavilion Mrs. Clarke moved sharply. She sat straight up on the divan, rigid, with her hands pressed palm downwards on the cushions. Dion had heard nothing, and did not understand the reason for her abrupt, almost violent, movement.
“Why . . . ?” he began.
She caught his wrist and held it tightly, compressing her fingers on it with a fierce force that amazed him.
“Mater!”
Had he really heard the word, or had he imagined it?
“Mater!”
He had heard it.
“It’s Jimmy!”
She had her thin lips close to his ear. She still held his wrist in a grip of iron.