"Don't be so distressed," he heard her murmur. "It's not your fault, dear. Don't be frightened about it." He tried to shake her off with a childish petulance, but she persevered. Yet she could not calm him. He broke from her and sprang to his feet, leaving her kneeling. "I can't face it! By God, I can't!" he cried. "It will happen," said Grantley Imason. "If not to-night--if anything prevents me to-night--still very soon. You'll hear of it very soon." The young man shuddered. "The poor little chap--the poor innocent little chap!" he muttered hoarsely. He turned to Grantley. "For Heaven's sake, think again!" "It's you who have to think. I have thought. I've little time for more thought. You've all your life to think about it--all your life with that woman, who is the mother of the child." "Why do you torment him?" broke out Sibylla angrily. But she rose slowly and drew away from Blake as she spoke. Grantley shrugged his shoulders scornfully. "The fellow has no business in an affair like this," he said. "He'd better get back to his flirtations." "I never thought of anything like this." The repetition came from Blake like some dull forlorn refrain. He put his hand to his throat and gulped with a hard dry swallow. He looked round the room, made for a table where some whisky stood, and took a drink of it. Then he half staggered back to his chair, and sat down all in a heap. His limit was reached. He was crushed between the upper and the nether stone--between Grantley's flinty pride and the ruthless fanaticism of Sibylla's ideas. Between them they would make him, who had wanted to be good, who had had such fine aspirations, such high-coloured dreams, such facile emotions, so impulsive a love--between them they would make him a murderer--a murderer in his own eyes. Whatever hands did the deed, to the end of his days conscience would cry out that his were red. Sibylla sighed. Her eyes were very mournful. She spoke, as it seemed, more to herself than to either of them. "I wanted to make him happy, and I've made him very unhappy. I can do it, but he can't do it. I mustn't ask it of him. He would never be happy, I could never make him happy. Even if I could be happy, he couldn't; it's too hard for him. I don't know what to do now." Grantley neither spoke nor moved. "I've no right to ask it of any man. Nobody could agree to it, nobody could endure it. There's misery both ways now." She went to Blake, who was sitting in the apathetic stupor which had followed his raving outburst. Again she knelt by him and whispered to him soothingly. At last Grantley spoke. "It would be well if we were home before it's light and the servants up," he said. She looked across at him from beside Blake's knee. She looked long and searchingly. His smile was gone; his manner and air were courteous, however peremptory.