She lifted her eyes. Her lashes pulled against the mesh of her veil
and again lent her her look of astonishment. She said distantly: “My
son loved Eva, and his life is probably spoiled. He has ideas in his
head which only time can eradicate. I am convinced that he never said a
cross word to her. But, as you know, I myself had several conversations
with my daughter-in-law which in the light of her death I regret. You
will be doing me a favour if you tell your friends that I--and not my
son--undoubtedly upset her. And, Mrs. Avery, you will kindly refrain
from repeating to my son, if you should see him, what his wife said in
your presence about his work.” With superb dismissal of me from her
life, she put up her _lorgnette_ and inspected me. Her eyes swept over
me, remotely speculative. With the slightest of nods, she turned away.
The ship had docked. She clung to the barrier with both hands. Her
white kid gloves, pinching her hands, must have supplied the physical
pain she now welcomed. For she lifted to the deck, where she would see
her son, a face from which she had erased all that would distress him.
[Illustration]