Tom was alarmed, shaken, stupefied. He stood before her and found no words. He raised his arms up shoulder-high, drawing a long breath. Then he let them fall against his thighs. “Well, that’s an end of it,” he said. His voice was calm, and he turned and went toward the door. Her face wore now the same expression, the same half-pouting, half-injured smile, as when he entered. “Tom?” she said, with a rising inflection. “Are you vexed with me?” He held the oval doorknob in one hand and made a gesture of weary protest with the other. “Oh, no. Not at all.” She put out her hand and tipped her head on one side. “Come here, Tom. Your poor sister has had a hard time. Life is hard on her. She has much to bear. And at this minute she has nobody, in all the world--” He came back; he took her hand; but wearily, indifferently, not looking at her face. Suddenly her lip began to quiver. “You must go on alone now,” she said. “There’s nothing good to be looked for from Christian, and I am finished. Failed. Gone to pieces. I can do no more. I am a poor, useless woman, dependent on you all for my living. I could never have dreamed, Tom, that I should be no help to you at all. Now you stand quite alone, and upon you it depends to keep up the honour and dignity of the family. May God help you in the task.” Two large, clear, childish tears rolled down over her cheeks, which were beginning to show, very faintly, the first signs of age. CHAPTER XI Tony lost no time. She went resolutely about her affair. In the hope of quieting her, of bringing her slowly to a different frame of mind, the Consul said but little. He asked only one thing: that she should be very quiet and stop entirely in the house--and Erica as well. Perhaps it would blow over. The town did not need to know. The family Thursday afternoon was put off on some pretext. But on the very next day she wrote to Dr. Gieseke and summoned him to Meng Street. She received him alone, in the middle corridor room on the first floor, where a fire was laid, and she had arranged a heavy table with ink and writing materials and a quantity of foolscap paper from the office. They sat down in two easy-chairs. “Doctor Gieseke,” said Tony. She folded her arms, flung back her head, and looked at the ceiling while she spoke. “You are a man of experience, both professionally and personally. I can speak openly with you.” And thereupon she revealed to him the whole story about Babette and what had happened in her sleeping-chamber. Dr. Gieseke regretted being obliged to explain to her that neither the affair on the stairs nor the insult she had undoubtedly received, the precise nature of which she hesitated to divulge, was sufficient ground for a divorce. “Very good,” she said. “Thank you.”