Surprised and touched by her action, he bent down and kissed her.
“My poor little wife.”
He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain to shield her eyes from the glare, and promising to order some tea to be brought up later, he went out.
The kiss, the term, and the little act of thoughtfulness comforted her, gave her a sense of protection. She had been so bruised and frightened. Now she could think a litde. Should she tell Everard? Then she broke down again and began to cry silently in a great soothing pity for herself.
“It would only make him unhappy,” she moaned. “Why should I tell him?”
She grew calmer. If Amédée would only keep his promise and leave her free, there was really nothing to fret about. She reassured herself with his words. Through all his failings toward her he had ever been “bon enfant.” There was no danger.
Suddenly a thought came that made her spring from her bed in dismay. The concert. She had forgotten that Amédée was singing there. Everard was going. He would see the name on the programme, “Amédée Bazouge.” There could not be two tenors of that name in Europe. Everard must be kept away at all costs.
She rushed from the room and down the stairs, in terrible anxiety lest he should have already left the hotel. To her intense relief, she saw him sitting in one of the cane chairs in the vestibule smoking his after-lunch cigar. He threw it away as he caught sight of her at the head of the stairs, breathless, and holding the balusters, and went up to meet her.
“My poor child,” said he in an anxious tone. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, Everard—I don’t want any more to be left alone. Don’t think me silly and cowardly. I am afraid of all kinds of things.”