"My husband's mother's dead. He was awfully fond of her. He's been ill ever since, and the doctor said he'd better come away." "You're ill yourself, you know, Mrs. Merrick," exclaimed Mrs. Tennant. "I've been nursing him a month--night and day. He's not strong. We'd barely got back when she died. What with his illness, and the business--it's been terrible!" Sally was watching Mrs. Tennant--she did not know why. She felt defensive. All was the result of her own position and the dreadful knowledge which she had of her last night's temptation. She looked like a young girl, but so pale and hollow-eyed that she would have aroused pity in any woman of experience. "But it's _you_. I know Mr. Merrick. I've often seen him queer. But you're so changed. When you were here before...." "I know. I'm ill." "I said to my sister how strong and bright you were. We both thought you'd make a--well, a _new_ man of Mr. Merrick." "It's only his mother's dying like that. He was worried about her, and then she died; and he just went to pieces. He had to be put to bed at once. I'll put him to bed again as soon as we've had something to eat. He's so _weak_. It's the change he wants, and the fresh air." "And you too, my dear." Mrs. Tennant seemed really to be kind. "When he's asleep I'll go for a walk. I'll soon be well." Sally was reassuring; but she was made aware of her own weakness by having had attention drawn to the appearance of it. They parted with smiles. Sally made as if to re-enter the bedroom; but, instead, she went through the drawing-room and on to the balcony. The river was running swiftly up-stream, so that the thick mud was hidden. Back along its course came little floating masses of collected material, like miniature islands in progress up and down the river. Sally stood watching one of these masses, until it grew indistinct as the result of her intentness. The sun was making the houses beyond the river glitter anew, and the whole town was beautified in its light. A feeling of great misery seized Sally. She stared down at the discoloured stream, and her eyes filled with tears. She was again consumed with a sense of loneliness; and a faint horror of the returning tide caused her to break once again from her contemplation, to walk back through the drawing-room, and to rejoin Gaga. He was sitting upon the bed, regarding with a vacant expression the two dressing-cases which had been brought up to the room and which stood together against the wall. The room was cold and dark. Sally impulsively went to the French windows opening upon the balcony and drew back the curtains. "There now," she said. "You're going to get better. You can see the sun." Gaga smiled gently. Sally came back to him and stood with her hand ruffling his thin hair. She too smiled, but with abstraction. She was numbed by illness and horror and the journey and her vision of the dirty merciless water. xx