Then a servant girl brought in a telegram. Her heels made contact with Rhea’s knees and hobbled her with a crack. An uncomfortable silence followed. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. Her name was Rhea. . Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands.
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