Mrs. Maldon, moving her head, looked at him in silence. He tiptoed to
the foot of the bed and leaned on it gracefully. And as in the parlour
his shadow had fallen on the table, so now, with the gas just
behind him, it fell on the bed. The room was chilly and had a slight
pharmaceutical odour.
Mrs. Maldon said, with a weak effort--
"I was feeling faint, and Rachel thought I'd better get straight to
bed. I'm an old woman, Louis."
"She hasn't missed them!" he thought in a flash, and said, aloud--
"Nothing of the sort, auntie."
He was aware of the dim reflection of himself in the mirror of the
immense Victorian mahogany wardrobe to his left.
Mrs. Maldon again hesitated before speaking.
"You aren't ill, are you, auntie?" he said in a cheerful, friendly
whisper. He was touched by the poignant pathos of her great age and
her debility. It rent his heart to think that she had no prospect but
the grave.
She murmured, ignoring his question--
"I just wanted to tell you that you needn't go down home for your
night things--unless you specially want to, that is. I have all that's
necessary here, and I've given orders to Rachel."
"Certainly, auntie. I won't leave the house. That's all right.
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