"Is he better?" she whispered. "Can I come in?" Jerrold shook his head. "Better not--yet." "You'll send for me if--if--" "Yes." He heard her trailing away along the gallery. He went into the room. He stood at the foot of the bed and stared, stared at his father lying there in Eliot's arms. He would have liked to have been in Eliot's place, close to him, close, holding him. As it was he could do nothing but stand and look at him with that helpless, agonized stare. He _had_ to look at him, to look and look, punishing himself with sight for not having seen. His eyes felt hot and brittle; they kept on filling with tears, burned themselves dry and filled again. His hand clutched the edge of the footrail as if only so he could keep his stand there. A stream of warm air came through the open windows. Everything in the room stood still in it, unnaturally still, waiting. He was aware of the pattern of the window curtains. Blue parrots perched on brown branches among red flowers on a white ground; it all hung very straight and still, waiting. Anne looked at him and spoke. She was standing beside the bed now, holding the clean basin and a towel, ready. "Jerrold, you might go and get some more ice. It's in the bucket in the bath-room. Break it up into little pieces, like that. You split it with a needle." He went to the bath-room, moving like a sleepwalker, wrapped in his dream-like horror. He found the ice, he broke it into little pieces, like that. He was very careful and conscientious about the size, and grateful to Anne for giving him something to do. Then he went back again and took up his station at the foot of the bed and waited. His father still lay back on his pillow, propped by Eliot's arm. His hands were folded on his chest above the bedclothes. Anne still stood by the bed holding her basin and her towel ready. From time to time they gave him little pieces of ice to suck. Once he opened his eyes, looked round the room and spoke. "Is your mother there?" "Do you want her?" Eliot said. "No. It'll only upset her. Don't let her come in." He closed his eyes and opened them again. "Is that Anne?" "Yes. Who did you think it was?" "I don't know...I'm sorry, Anne." "Darling--" the word broke from a tender inarticulate sound she made. Then: "Jerrold--," he said. Jerrold came closer. His father's right arm unfolded itself and stretched out towards him along the bed. Anne whispered, "Take his hand." Jerrold took it. He could feel it tremble as he touched it.