returned Lady Wychcote, following as
they went towards the door. "I'd like to explain my unceremonious
descent on you.... James and Mildred decided to leave Venice this
afternoon instead of to-morrow. So, as I knew you were expecting me
to-morrow, I thought it couldn't really make any difference to you if I
came a day sooner. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you in any way...?"

"Not in the least. How could it?"

"Thanks very much. I hope you will feel rested in the morning."

"Thanks. I'm sure I shall."

Sophy moved on again. She felt that if she did not soon reach her
bedroom she would drop to the floor in spite of Rosa's supporting arm.

But now Lady Wychcote was speaking again. She had followed them out into
the corridor.

"Oh ... by the way ... I'm sorry to detain you, but I want to mention
something about Robert...."

The spent life in Sophy leaped like flame in the draught of a suddenly
opened door.

"Yes?" she said.

"The poor boy was so upset by your being so late that I promised him a
trip to the glass-works to divert him."

"That was very kind of you," murmured Sophy.

Lady Wychcote continued:

"So, if you've no objection, we are to go to Murano rather early
to-morrow morning.... A sort of all-day affair. We'll lunch there...."

"No, of course I don't object. I think it's very kind of you," said
Sophy.

"Then ... good night," said Lady Wychcote.

Through the haze of fatigue and misery that clouded her, Sophy felt
something peculiar in the tone of this "Good night." But then her
ladyship's voice often took a peculiar tone in speaking to her. She was
too tired to analyse this special shade of expression.

A great sigh of relief escaped her as she found herself in her own room.

"_Chut!_" whispered Rosa, smiling wisely, her finger at her lips. Then
she lowered it and pointed to the bed under its tent of white mosquito
netting. "_Guarda!... povero angelotto!_" (Look! ... poor little
angel!), she murmured. "He wouldn't sleep till I let him come into his
dear mamma's bed...."

As Sophy saw through the mist of the white curtains, the little sturdy
form and dark-red curls of her son, all her being rose in a great wave
of love and anguish. And borne forward as by this wave, she went and
looked down on him. He lay prone, hugging his pillow to him with both
arms, as if in her absence he would at least make sure of something that
had been close to her. And not even on the day when he had been born