"It's the telephone," she said, "in the library."
"Why isn't it answered? Oh, yes. You might have kept Thompson at least. Let it ring. I shan't go down."
"A doctor!" she said scornfully.
She arose with an effort. The lace of the mauve dressing-gown exaggerated the difficulty of her breathing. His glance, which took all this in, was not wholly without contrition.
"Answer it," she said. "I shan't fly from the house to any man's arms while you are in the library."
He half stretched out his hand to her, but the appealing motion resolved itself into a gesture of despair. He walked out and descended to the library.
After a moment the discordant bell was silent. The murmur of his voice, moment by moment interrupted, arose through the quiet house to this single lighted chamber.
She stood for a time by the door, listening. Once or twice she placed her hand above her heart. At last she turned back and gazed through the narrow door to the next room where a yellow ribbon of illumination from the reading light draped itself across her bed. Her face set in the cruel distortion that precedes tears, but at the sound of her husband's returning footsteps it resumed a semblance of control. No tears fell.
"Well?" she asked.
