“Madame took me when she did not know I had a voice—when she thought I was dying—when I was homeless—two years ago.”
“What do you mean?” said Rex sternly, sinking his voice below the pitch of the general conversation. “What did you tell me in your letter? Homeless!”
“I never wrote you any letter.” Yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time.
“You did not write that you had found a—a home which you preferred to—to—any you had ever had? And that it would be useless to—to offer you any other?”
“I never wrote. I was very ill and could not. Afterward I went to—you. You were gone.” Her low voice was heartbreaking to hear.
“When?” Rex could hardly utter a word.
“In June, as soon as I left the hospital.”
“The hospital? And your mother?”
“She was dead. I did not see her. Then I was very ill, a long time. As soon as I could, I went to Paris.”
“To me?”