Maisie's eyes looked at him across the table, wondering. Her little drooping mouth was half open with anxiety, as if any minute she was going to say something. The looking-glass had shown him his haggard and discoloured face, a face to frighten her. He tried to eat, but the sight and smell of hot roast mutton sickened him. "Oh, Jerrold, can't you eat it?" "No, I can't. I'm sorry." "There's some cold chicken. Will you have that?" "No, thanks." "Try and eat something." "I can't. I feel sick." "Don't sit up, then. Go and lie down." "I will if you don't mind." He went to his room and was sick. He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep. His head ached violently and every movement made him heave; he couldn't sleep; he couldn't lie still; and presently he got up and went out again, up to the Far Acres field to the ploughing. He couldn't overcome the physical sickness of his misery, but he could force himself to move, to tramp up and down the stiff furrows, watching the tractor; he kept himself going by the sheer strength of his will. The rattle and clank of the tractor ground into his head, making it ache again. He was stunned with great blows of noise and pain, so that he couldn't think. He didn't want to think; he was glad of the abominable sensations that stopped him. He went from field to field, avoiding the boundaries of the Barrow Farm lest he should see Anne. When the sun set and the land darkened he went home. At dinner he tried to eat, sickened again, and leaned back in his chair; he forced himself to sit through the meal, talking to Maisie. When it was over he went to bed and lay awake till the morning. The next day passed in the same way, and the next night; and always he was aware of Maisie's sweet face watching him with frightened eyes and an unuttered question. He was afraid to tell her that Anne was going lest she should put down his illness to its true cause. And on the third day, when he heard her say she was going to see Anne, he told her. "Oh, Jerrold, she can't really mean it." "She does mean it. I said everything I could to stop her, but it wasn't any good. She's taken her passage." "But why--_why_ should she want to go?" "I can't tell you why. You'd better ask her." "Has anything happened to upset her?" "What on earth should happen?" "Oh, I don't know. When did she tell you this?" He hesitated. It was dangerous to lie when Maisie might get the truth from Anne. "The day before yesterday." Maisie's eyes were fixed on him, considering it. He knew she was saying to herself, "That was the day you came home so sick and queer." "Jerry--did you say anything to upset her?" "No." "I can't think how she could want to go." "Nor I. But she's going." "I shall go down and see if I can't make her stay." "Do. But you won't if I can't," he said. iii Maisie went down early in the afternoon to see Anne.