The Message

Somewhere behind that mask of professional servility there was a
smile.

"I do not want a room," I said, "but I want to see Mademoiselle Rosa."

"Ah! As to that, monsieur, I will inquire." He became stony at once.

"Stay. Take my card."

He accepted it, but with an air which implied that everyone left a
card.

In a moment another servant came forth, breathing apologies, and led
me to Rosa's private sitting-room. As I went in a youngish, dark-eyed,
black-aproned woman, who, I had no doubt, was Rosa's maid, left the
room.

Rosa and I shook hands in silence, and with a little diffidence.
Wrapped in a soft, black, thin-textured tea-gown, she reclined in an
easy-chair. Her beautiful face was a dead white; her eyes were
dilated, and under them were dark semicircles.

"You have been ill," I exclaimed, "and I was not told."

She shrugged her shoulders in denial, and shivered.

"No," she said shortly. There was a pause. "He is buried?"

"Yes."

"Let me hear about it."

I wished to question her further about her health, but her tone was
almost imperious, and I had a curious fear of offending her.
Nevertheless I reminded myself that I was a doctor, and my concern for
her urged me to be persistent.

"But surely you have been ill?" I said.

She tapped her foot. It was the first symptom of nervous impatience
that I had observed in her.

"Not in body," she replied curtly. "Tell me all about the funeral."