Her own maid, who had arrived by train, rose from a seat in the upper corridor to meet her. The two rooms, which were connected by a sitting room, disclosed themselves, almost smothered in flowers.
Jacqueline stood in the sitting room for a moment, gazing vaguely around her at the flowers and steadying herself by one hand on the centre-table, which a great bowlful of white carnations almost covered.
Then, as her maid reappeared at the door of her room, she turned and looked at Desboro.
There was a silence; his face was very white, hers was deathly.
He said: "Shall we say good-night?"
"It is—for you—to say."
"Then—good-night, Jacqueline."
"Good-night."
