"I shan't think of killing," she said. "Just take care of yourselves, and come back."
George stared at her, alarmed. He had never seen her so white. Lambert followed her from the room. The Baillys went out after them. Why did Mrs. Planter linger? There she stood near the door, looking at George without the slightest betrayal of feeling. He had an impression she was going to say:
"We've really quite enjoyed Upton."
At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing, who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious to escape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle. Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling.
"Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspire confidence."
He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw him closer, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so low that Sylvia couldn't hear—a whisper intense, agonized, of a quality that seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain:
"Take care of my son. Bring him back to me."
She straightened, releasing his hand.
"Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly.
Without looking back she went out.