A sudden flush beautified the wan little face.
“Alexis!” she cried and brushed past Anne tempestuously.
“Alexis,” she repeated. “I had to come. Please forgive me!”
“Claire!” Alexis gazed at her stormily.
She approached him pleadingly. “Is that all you have to say to me, Alexis?”
“What do you expect me to say?” he braced himself visibly, “except that I am speechless with surprise?”
Drawing forward a porch chair, he motioned her toward it. “Won’t you sit down? It is a long journey from New York and you must be tired.” His voice was cold with restrained anger.
Her knees bent beneath her, and she sank into the chair with a tired sigh.
“Thank you, Alexis,” the small voice was pathetic.
“But I forget,” Alexis added as Anne approached them rather hesitatingly, “this is my hostess, Mrs. Schuyler. Mrs. Schuyler, my wife.”