Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips the little gold whistle which hung from his neck and blew it. He seemed to devote very little effort to the operation, yet the strength of the note was wonderful. As the echoes died away, he let it fall by his side and waited with a pleased smile upon his lips. In a few seconds there was the hurried flutter of skirts and the sound of footsteps. The girl who had just completed her railway journey entered, followed by her brother. They were both a little out of breath, they both approached the chair without a smile, the girl in advance, with a certain expression of apprehension in her eyes. Mr. Fentolin sighed.
He appeared to notice these things and regret them.
"My child," he said, holding out his hands, "my dear Esther, welcome home again! I heard the car outside. I am grieved that you did not at once hurry to my side."
"I have not been in the house two minutes," Esther replied, "and I haven't seen mother yet. Forgive me."
She had come to a standstill a few yards away. She moved now very slowly towards the chair, with the air of one fulfilling a hateful task. The fingers which accepted his hands were extended almost hesitatingly. He drew her closer to him and held her there.
"Your mother, my dear Esther, is, I regret to say, suffering from a slight indisposition," he remarked. "She has been confined to her room for the last few days. Just a trifling affair of the nerves; nothing more, Doctor Sarson assures me. But my dear child," he went on, "your fingers are as cold as ice. You look at me so strangely, too. Alas! you have not the affectionate disposition of your dear mother. One would scarcely believe that we have been parted for more than a week."
"For more than a week," she repeated, under her breath.
"Stoop down, my dear. I must kiss your forehead - there! Now bring up a chair to my side. You seem frightened - alarmed. Have you ill news for me?"
"I have no news," she answered, gradually recovering herself.
"The gaieties of London, I fear," he protested gently, "have proved a little unsettling."
"There were no gaieties for me," the girl replied bitterly. "Mrs.
Sargent obeyed your orders very faithfully. I was not allowed to move out except with her."
"My dear child, you would not go about London unchaperoned!"
"There is a difference," she retorted, "between a chaperon and a jailer."
Mr. Fentolin sighed. He shook his head slowly. He seemed pained.
"I am not sure that you repay my care as it deserves, Esther," he declared. "There is something in your deportment which disappoints me. Never mind, your brother has made some atonement. I entrusted him with a little mission in which I am glad to say that he has been brilliantly successful."
"I cannot say that I am glad to hear it," Esther replied quietly.
Mr. Fentolin sat back in his chair. His long fingers played nervously together, he looked at her gravely.
"My dear child," he exclaimed, in a tone of pained surprise, "your attitude distresses me!"
"I cannot help it. I have told you what I think about Gerald and the life he is compelled to live here. I don't mind so much for myself, but for him I think it is abominable."
"The same as ever," Mr. Fentolin sighed. "I fear that this little change has done you no good, dear niece.
"Change!" she echoed. "It was only a change of prisons."
Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly - a distressful gesture. Yet all the time he had somehow the air of a man secretly gratified.
"You are beginning to depress me," he announced. "I think that you can go away. No, stop for just one moment. Stand there in the light. Dear me, how unfortunate! Who would have thought that so beautiful a mother could have so plain a daughter!"
She stood quite still before him, her hands crossed in front of her, something of the look of the nun from whom the power of suffering has gone in her still, cold face and steadfast eyes.
"Not a touch of colour," he continued meditatively, "a figure straight as my walking-stick. What a pity! And all the taste, nowadays, they tell me, is in the other direction. The lank damsels have gone completely out. We buried them with Oscar Wilde.
Run along, my dear child. You do not amuse me. You can take Gerald with you, if you will. I have nothing to say to Gerald just now.
He is in my good books. Is there anything I can do for you, Gerald?
Your allowance, for instance - a trifling increase or an advance?
I am in a generous humour."
