Madame Claire was at her desk, writing. She was writing to Stephen, and
when she did that she gave her whole attention to it.
"_I am so sorry you are feeling less well. How is the phlebitis? No
one ought to suffer from anything with such a pretty name. Did you
ever stop to think that the names of diseases and the names of
flowers are very similar? For instance, I might say, 'Do come and
see my garden. It is at its best now, and the double pneumonias are
really wonderful. I suppose the mild winter had something to do with
that. I'm very proud of my trailing phlebitis, too, and the
laryngitises and deep purple quinsies that I put in last year are a
joy to behold. The bed of asthmas and malarias that you used to
admire is finer than ever this summer, and the dear little dropsies
are all in bloom down by the lake, and make such a pretty showing
with the blue of the anthrax border behind them!'_
"_Enough of nonsense. There is a great deal to tell you. I wrote you
that Eric was on his way to Paris to fetch Connie. He found her,
where I thought he would, and they returned to London together. He
took rooms for her in a quiet little hotel, which I fear was a
mistake, for Connie loathes quiet little hotels, and only goes to
them when she must. However, we shall see. She came to see me the
other day--poor Connie! She is, to use her own words, a wreck of a
woman, but she trails the ghost of her beauty about with her, and
Eric tells me people still turn to stare after her in the streets.
She tried to talk to me as if we had parted only yesterday, and was
as unemotional as one could wish, for which I was thankful, for
emotions are only permissible when they are genuine, and not always
then._
"_I suppose I am a very odd old woman, Stephen, but I only felt for
her what I would have felt for any other woman in her position. I
had to keep reminding myself that this once beautiful, made-up woman
was my daughter. I have never known that feverish mother-love that
so many women experience. My children interested, amused and
disappointed me--when I was stupid enough to be disappointed. I know
better now. I would die for any of my children, but I cannot
sentimentalize over them._
"_How I digress! Connie is going to give London a try, and I hope to
Heaven she will find something to interest her. She has no friends,
so she will have to fall back, I suppose, on shops and theaters, and
of course clothes, which she still loves. But she is not a woman to
'take up' things. I wish she were._
"_But you will be most interested in Judy. I wrote you about the
near-accident, and the man who was knocked down in the fog. He
appears to have captivated both Judy and Noel, and they are bringing
him here to tea this afternoon. I am most anxious to meet him, for
something tells me that Judy is more interested in him than she has
ever been in any man. But more of that in my next letter._
"_Louise returns of her own free will--which must annoy
her--to-morrow. I think she deferred her homecoming in the hope
that Eric would send for her, but instead of that he begged her to
stay as long as she wished. She has never met Connie, and of course
they will dislike each other. At present neither she nor Millie
know of Connie's return. I thought it better to let her take root
a little first, for I think any unpleasantness during the first
week or two would easily dislodge her._
"_I do hope to see you here, Stephen. Do you plan and hope for it
too?_
"_I will write again very soon._
"CLAIRE."
She always sent Dawson out to post her letters to Stephen the moment
they were written. She knew he had not her vitality nor her interests.
There was little to hold him to life except her letters, and the hope
he had of seeing her and those about her again.