“I came because you sent for me, Virginia,” he replied in a hard, level tone. Virginia’s hand fell at her side. For a moment she looked at him in silence; then she turned. “Come,” she said in a low voice. William followed her up the wide old stairs, moving slowly, only aware of the humiliation he felt. After ascending the last flight Virginia stood before an open door and beckoned. He came to her side. “Listen!” she whispered. “William!” He started. He knew the voice--it was Fanchon’s. “William!” she called again, and the light, hurrying voice went on--sometimes in French, sometimes in English, but always repeating the cry, “William!” “It’s like that all day,” said Virginia. “She calls and calls you. It’s pitiful, William, and it’s beautiful--she loves you so!” He raised his dull eyes slowly from the floor to Fanchon’s face. What he saw there made him draw a deep breath of pain. He stepped into the room. The light was dim, but he saw the face on the pillow and the soft, dark, wildly disheveled hair. Fanchon lay there, tossing, moving her hands restlessly, her fawn-like eyes brilliant and vacant, her small white face tear-stained, and her lips moving, whether words came or not. While her husband stood there, his head bowed, just inside the door, she began to speak again in rambling and broken sentences. “William! I’m not bad--I’ve never been bad--_non, non_! You can’t threaten me--I won’t stand it, I’ll call my husband--William, William!” She sat up in bed, and tears ran down her cheeks. She seemed to be looking at Virginia, who still stood in the door. “I didn’t do wrong--I loved him. You shan’t take him away--I love him--William!” William listened, and it seemed to him as if his own heart stopped beating. The soft, appealing voice, and the white, pitiful face! He felt a sudden sensation of suffocation. “_Guillaume de mon cœur!_ He’ll come,” cried Fanchon softly. William took a quick step forward, hesitated, and then went across the room. He knelt beside the bed and caught the trembling, groping little hands in his and held them. Virginia turned away. She went quietly out of the room and shut the door behind her. XXIX WHEN Virginia came down-stairs she heard the pleasant jingle of ice in the drawing-room. Plato was serving iced tea, there being no occasion in life, not even a funeral, when refreshments were not served; but Mr. Carter and her grandfather were the only tea-drinkers. Mrs. Carter was sitting in the corner, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, and Daniel was walking up and down on the rear piazza. Virginia heard his restless tramp as she crossed the hall and stood for a moment in the drawing-room door. They all looked up at her, and Plato discreetly withdrew, bearing his tray. “How is she, Jinny?” the colonel asked quietly, setting aside his slender glass of tea.