She knew that she was ill. She knew that she was looking ill. But her little frame shook with an impatient movement.
“I’m going to stick it, Blaise. I’m going to stick it if I die for it.”
“It’s magnificent, but it isn’t war—or anything else,” said he.
Then came Rowington. The last straw. The last straw, in the guise of an anxious, kindly, gold-spectacled, clean-shaven, florid-faced philanthropist. First he had asked over the telephone for Triona’s address. An urgent matter. Olivia replied that his address was secret. Would she kindly forward a letter? She replied that none of her husband’s letters were to be forwarded. Would Mrs. Triona see him, then? He would wait on her at any time convenient to her. She fixed the hour. He came on the stroke.
Olivia, her heart cold, her brain numbed by a hundred apprehensions, was waiting for him in the drawing-room. Myra announced him. Olivia rose.
“My dear Mrs. Triona,” said he, emphasizing the conventional handshake by laying his hand over hers and holding it, “where is that wonderful husband of yours?”
“He’s gone abroad,” said Olivia.
“He must come back,” said Rowington.
“He has gone away for a long time on important business,” said Olivia, parrot-wise.