They rang in her ears and
shouted and stunned her. Her whole body writhed.
The hubbub below sank to a confused murmur. She heard footsteps in the
corridor--the firm tramp of the orderly followed by the shuffle of
list slippers.
"Number Two-six-seven-two is outside, ma'am. Am I to show him in?"
She bent her head and moved towards the fireplace. She heard him
shuffle in, and the door shut behind him. Still she did not turn.
"Dorothea!"--his voice shook with joy, with passion. How well she
knew that deep Provencal tremolo. She could have laughed aloud in her
bitterness.
"Dorothea!"
She faced him at length. He stood there, stretching out both hands to
her. He was handsome as ever, but pale and sadly pinched. Beyond all
doubt he had suffered. His grey-blue hospital suit hung about him in
folds.
In her eyes he read at once that something was wrong--but without
comprehending. "You sent for me," he stammered; "you have come--"
She found her voice and, to her surprise, it was quite firm.
"Yes, we have brought your release," she said; and, watching his eyes,
saw the joy leap up in them, saw it quenched the next instant as he
composed his features to a fond solicitude for her.
"But you?" he murmured. "What has happened? Tell me--no, do not draw
away! Your hand, at least."
Contempt, for herself or for him, gave her a moment's strength, but it
broke down again.
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