"I think so, sir. Mrs. Clydesdale's maid spoke to me."
"Very well. Thank you."
He went out and mounted the stairs, striding up silently to the hall above, where his wife's maid quietly opened the door for him, then went away to her own little chintz-lined den.
Elena was lying on her bed in a frilly, lacy, clinging thing of rose tint. The silk curtains had been drawn, but squares of sunlight quartered them, turning the dusk of the pretty room to a golden gloom.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him as he advanced.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said; and his heavy voice shook in spite of him.
She motioned toward the only armchair—an ivory-covered affair, the cane bottom covered by a rose cushion.
"Bring it here—nearer," she said.
He did so, and seated himself beside the bed cautiously.
She lay silent after that; once or twice she pressed the palms of both hands over her eyes as though they pained her, but when he ventured to inquire, she shook her head. It was only when he spoke of calling up Dr. Allen again that she detained him in his chair with a gesture: