Looking at her, a pathetic idea came to Mrs. Wilcox.  “You never had a frock that became you more,” she murmured between two sighs.  Mrs. Nevill Tyson heard neither murmur nor sighs.  And yet her senses did their work.  For years afterwards she remembered that some one was standing there in the bright sunshine, dressed in a red gown, some one who answered when she was spoken to; but that she—­she—­stood apart in her misery and was dumb.

“I don’t understand,” she said at last.  “Why can’t you say what you mean? Is there danger?”

Mrs. Wilcox looked uncomfortable.  “Yes, there is some danger.  But while there is life there is—­hope.”

“If there is danger—­” she paused, looking away toward the long highroad, “if there is danger, I shall send for Nevill.  He will come.”

She telegraphed:  “Baby dangerously ill.  Come at once.”

She waited feverishly for an answer.  There was none.  To the horror of the household, she gave orders that when Captain Stanistreet called she would see him.  As she could not tear herself from the baby, there was nothing for it but to bring Stanistreet to her.

To his intense astonishment Louis was led up into a wide bare room on the third story:  He was in that mood when we are struck with the unconscious symbolism of things.  By the high fire-guard, the walls covered with cheerful oleographs, the toys piled in the corner, he knew that this was the abode of innocence, a child’s nursery.  The place was flooded with sunshine.  A woman sat by the fire with a small yellowish bundle in her lap.  Opposite her sat Mrs. Nevill Tyson, with her eyes fixed on the bundle.  She looked up in Stanistreet’s face as he came in, but held out no hand.

“Louis,” she whispered hoarsely when he was near, “where’s Nevill?”

“In London.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t speak to him.  I—­I was in a hurry.”

She had turned her head.  Her eyes never wandered from that small yellowish bundle.  Up to the last she had let it lie on the nurse’s knee.  She had not dared to take it; perhaps she felt she was unworthy.  He followed her gaze.

“He’s very ill,” said she.  “Look at him.”

The nurse moved a fold of blanket from the child’s face, and Stanistreet gazed at Tyson’s son.  He tried to speak.

“Sh—­sh—­” whispered Mrs. Nevill Tyson.  “He’s sleeping.”

“Dying, sir,” muttered the nurse.  The woman drew in her knees, tightening her hold on the child.  Her face was stained with tears. (She had loved the baby before she loved Pinker.  Remorse moved her and righteous indignation.) Mrs. Nevill Tyson’s nostrils twitched; deep black rings were round her eyes.  Passion and hunger were in them, but there were no tears.

And as Stanistreet looked from one woman to the other, he understood.  He picked up the bundle and removed it to its mother’s knee.  All her soul passed into the look wherewith she thanked him.  Swinny, tear-stained but inexorable, stood aloof, like rigid Justice, weighing her mistress in the balance.