The voice was harsh and self-contained. For the first time she looked at Claire, who shrank beneath the stare of the small glassy eyes.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, pinching her lips. “Where you know you are not permitted, you and your dog?” she added with a contemptuous glare, at the microscopic Griffon.
Claire stooped and gathered Bébé up in her arms.
“The—the letter, it is from Alexis!” she stammered. “Please—please read it to me, Aunt!” She trembled visibly at her own boldness.
Her evident fear irritated Mme. Petrovskey.
“Yes, it is from Alexis,” she replied glacially, “but there is no message in it for you.” She revolved once more in her chair, and commenced to write again fast and furiously.
A low cry of despair and rage escaped Claire.
“You are cruel,” she cried chokingly. “I have a right to know! Am I not his wife!”
The revolving chair remained immovable. Mme. Petrovskey bent a purple face over her writing.
“He says he is better, but is taking a further rest-cure, and doesn’t wish us to know his address. He will communicate with us later,” she replied in suppressed and uneven tones, her obstinate back still turned upon the girl.