Thus it was that Claire’s eyes, always plaintive at best, brimmed with the age-old sorrow of the world, and she lay upon the window-sill, heavy with misery, recalling the scenes of childhood, clinging pitifully to their memory like an old woman for whom life has already withdrawn all hope of a future. While at her side, his small soul vaguely troubled, the Griffon whined and tugged at her skirts. Her weary eyes falling upon him presently, a sudden pity seized her for his helplessness. Her hand closed fondly upon his small head.
“Poor Bébé,” she murmured, following the little dog’s longing glance into the street below. “Shall I take you for a walk?”
At her words, he leaped up into her face rapturously, his furry body vibrant with joyful tail-waggings. She smiled wanly at his eagerness. “Poor Bébé, I’ve neglected you, haven’t I? But I’m so miserable, so miserable!” She caught him up in her arms and hugged him to her so tightly that he yelped in shrill remonstrance. Setting him down with a patient smile she sat down at her toilet table and put on her hat, an uninteresting dark blue turban which emphasized disastrously her insignificance.
As she met her weary eyes in the mirror, her pallor deepened. “No wonder Alexis couldn’t love me,” she exclaimed in a bitter whisper. “I am ugly, no——” she paused, beating her little fist upon the toilet table. “I am worse than ugly, I am nothing, nobody! How could I expect to hold a genius, a man of fire? And now,” she bent her head upon her arms and burst into low, suppressed weeping, “he is lost, perhaps dead! But I can’t believe it,” she raised her head and gazed at her reflection savagely. “He is not dead, he is only hiding somewhere—from her,” she added in a tense whisper. “From us both! Perhaps he has met another woman whom he can really love. If that should happen I wonder what I would do? Kill her? God knows I would want to!” The clenched fists rose to her mouth in a passionate gesture.
The little dog tugged at her skirts. An odd smile upon her lips, she controlled herself with an effort, caught up gloves and bag and led him out of the room.
As they reached the entrance-hall, the doorbell whirred noisily. Claire’s heart leaped, and then fell leadenly. Could it, might it be Alexis, at last?
Ito opened the door. A chauffeur was standing there, a letter in his hand. With a gasp of disappointment Claire signed to the Jap to give it to her.
It was from Alexis.
The beloved hieroglyphics sprawled before her eyes in a happy mist. Addressed not to herself but to Mme. Petrovskey, they gave her a momentary pang, that vanished quickly beneath the certainty of Alexis’ safety. She spoke to the man as steadily as she could.
“Is there—any answer?”