“Who’s that?” said Sonia’s voice.
“It’s Jimmy!”
The door was opened by the maid, and he saw his mother in a long, very thin white dressing-gown, seated in an arm-chair before a mirror. Her colorless hair flowed over the back of the chair, against which her little head was leaning, supported by a silk cushion. Her face looked very white and tired, and the lids drooped over her usually wide-open eyes, giving her a strange expression of languor, almost of drowsiness. Sonia held a silver-backed brush in each hand.
“Monsieur Jimmy!” she said.
“Jimmy!” said Mrs. Clarke. “What’s the matter?”
She lifted her head from the cushion, and sat straight up. But she still looked languid.
“What is it? Are you ill?”
“No, mater! But I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
There was a boyish reproach in his voice.
“Looking for me in the middle of the night! Why?”