Yet the spots had existed; and Sibylla had been wrong--had been wrong, and was now, it appeared, unreasonable. Moreover, beyond question, Mumples was idiotic. Reason was alarmed in him, since it was threatened. He told himself that Grantley was very sensible to sleep. But himself he could not think of sleep, and his ears were hungry for every sound from the floor above. The stairs creaked--there was a sniff. Mrs. Mumple was at the door. Jeremy made an instinctive gesture for silence because Grantley slept. He watched Mrs. Mumple as she turned her eyes on the peacefully reposing form. The eyes turned sharp to him, and Mrs. Mumple raised her fat hands just a little and let them fall softly. "He's asleep?" she whispered. "You see he is. Best thing for him to do, too." His answering whisper was gruff. "She's not sleeping," said Mrs. Mumple; "and she's asking for him again." "Then we'd better wake him up." He spoke irritably as he rose and touched Grantley's shoulder. "He must be tired out, don't you see?" Mrs. Mumple made no answer. She raised and dropped her hands again. Grantley awoke lightly and easily, almost unconscious that he had slept. "What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Dora Hutting! Why, I believe I've been asleep!" "You've slept nearly an hour," said Jeremy, going back to his chair. Grantley's eyes fell on Mrs. Mumple; a slight air of impatience marked his manner as he asked: "Is anything wrong, Mrs. Mumple?" "She's asking for you again, Mr. Imason." "Dear me, Gardiner said she should be kept quiet!" "The doctor's lying down. But she'll not rest without seeing you; she's fretting so." "Have you been letting her talk about it and excite herself? Have you been talking to her yourself?" "How can we help talking about it?" Mrs. Mumple moaned. "It's infernally silly--infernally!" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Well, I must go to her, I suppose." He turned to Jeremy. "It'll be better if you'll keep Mrs. Mumple with you. We'll get the nurse to go to Sibylla." "I can't leave her as she is," said Mrs. Mumple, threatening a fresh outburst of tears. Grantley walked out of the room, muttering savagely. The strain of irritation, largely induced by Mrs. Mumple's lachrymosely reproachful glances and faithful doglike persistency, robbed him of the tenderness by which alone he might possibly have won his wife's willing obedience and perhaps convinced her reason through her love. He used his affection now, not in appeal, but as an argumentative point. He found in her a hard opposition; she seemed to look at him with a sort of dislike, a mingling of fear and wonder. Thus she listened in silence to his cold marshalling of the evidences of his love and his deliberate enforcing of the claims it gave him. Seeing that he made no impression, he grew more impatient and more imperious, ending with a plain intimation that he would discuss the question no further. "You'll make me the murderess of my child," she said.