He had risen from his knees and stood beside her, looking down. Her weakness and her loveliness seemed to lift themselves towards him like pleading things which he thrust off. He felt uncomfortable and irresolute. He was conscious of trying not to look annoyed. "You are going in a boat?" she asked, very faintly now. "Well--yes--a sort of boat." Avery fumbled fatuously. "It's quite a safe one," he added. "And Romer says"-- He began to tell her what Romer said. "And guns?" she whispered. "There will be guns?" "Oh, I presume Tom has a gun," replied the husband, with what he felt to be an ingenious veracity. "You know I 'm no shot. I don't like guns much better than you do, dear.... I 'm getting late," he observed abruptly. "But I won't go, Jean, if you don't want me to. I thought it might set me up a little," he added, before she could reply. In fact, she did not seem to incline to reply, or did not feel able to do so; he could not tell which. She lay looking up at him quite steadily. Molly had taken both the children into the nursery, and the two were alone. A clock ticked on the mantel in a loud, irritating tone. The white silk Spanish shawl which had fallen from the lounge hung to his coat-sleeve; it was a delicate thing, and the fringe clung like tendrils; he had to tear it off roughly. He bethought him to wrap the shawl about her when he had done this, for she seemed to be cold. As he bent to perform for her this little service--which was offered with an obtrusive tenderness--he stooped and kissed her throat. The soft, sweet flesh quivered at his touch. Jean raised her weak arms and clasped them about his neck. But they fell back instantly, as if the action had hurt her. "Come, dear," he resumed hurriedly. "Shall I go--or not?" "I don't feel _quite_ well," faltered Jean. "I think--I slept too long--that heavenly sleep ... last night"-- "I 'll go and tell Romer I can't go," said Avery shortly. He started, and went half across the room, then paused. "Well, Jean?" he suggested. Jean did not reply. She was lying just as he had left her, with her arms fallen at her sides, her bright hair brushed back from her face, which looked strangely prominent and large. There was that in her eyes which a man would not have refused in a dog. The husband returned impetuously to her side. "Poor Jean! I won't go. Really I won't. I 'll do just as you say--truly I will. Won't you _say_, Jean? Won't you express a wish?" But Jean shook her head. The time had come when she had no wish to express; and she seemed not to have the strength to express even the fact that she had none. "If you think it best ... for you" ... The words were inarticulate. "I really do," urged Avery uncomfortably. "At least, I did--that is, unless you are actually too ill to spare me.... How is a man to know?" he muttered, not thinking she would hear.