WHITEWASH
Philippa winced in spite of her prostration. Then there flashed through her throbbing brain another thought. His last care had been to exonerate Victoria—no thought of her. But perhaps he did not wish to drag her name with his to a dishonored grave. In a tumult of sensations, she wavered back and forth, now filled with hatred of Valdeck and his deceptions, now crushed and broken-hearted over his death. Her will was in abeyance, and her many-sided mind, uncontrolled, followed with exaggerated vision the myriad suggestions that in normal conditions float half-formed in the consciousness. She was only vaguely aware of the drone of her aunt's voice, as she continued to pour wisdom upon the unheeding air.
The maid entered presently, with a note for Philippa. Aroused and brought back to vivid consciousness, she glanced at the address in Morton's clean-cut, characteristic hand.
It was a request, couched in formal terms, for an interview some time during the day.
Dismissing the maid with a nod, she handed the missive to her aunt, who glanced over it.
