“Are we there?” asked Anne.
Her face fiery with chagrin, Claire nodded laconically.
They mounted in the elevator and were admitted into the studio by Mme. Petrovskey.
“This is very good of you to take pity upon my poor boy,” said a suave voice.
Anne felt herself drawn swiftly into the room. An inscrutable China-doll face gazed blankly into her own.
“Not at all,” she replied quietly. “I am distressed to hear of your son’s illness and only hope I shall be of some use.”
The small, blue eyes urbanely veiled, were fixed upon Anne’s face.
“I’m afraid you’re too modest,” continued the bland voice. Dislike, tinged with a hint of curiosity lurked beneath the perfect manner. “The doctor seems to think you are necessary for my son’s recovery, and we, his wife and mother,” the eyes ceased to bore through Anne momentarily and swept ironically over Claire’s shrinking figure, “are only too grateful.” She came a little nearer and laid a massive hand on Anne’s cloak. “Perhaps you’d better keep your wrap on. The sick-room is very cold, and you’re not exactly dressed for the occasion, are you, dear lady?”
“Perhaps not,” replied Anne, a frozen anger accumulating in her voice. “You see I was on my way to the theater. But isn’t this delay unnecessary, Mme. Petrovskey? Won’t you please take me in to your son? That is, if the doctor permits?”
Perfect urbanity descended once more upon Mme. Petrovskey.