For love in sequel works with fate. The four walked back to the library together. Mrs. Agar looked back over her shoulder at every other footstep. She took no notice of her son. Her affection for him seemed suddenly to have been absorbed and lost in some other emotion. Jem was half supporting, half carrying Arthur, whose eyes were like those of a dead man, while his lips were parted in a vacant, senseless way. Already Ruthine could be heard giving his orders to the gardeners and other servants who had gathered round him in a wonderfully short space of time. Dora passed into the library first, treading carefully over the broken glass, and Mrs. Agar followed her without appearing to notice the sound of breakage beneath her feet. No one had spoken a word since Mark Ruthine had told them that Seymour Michael was dead. There are some situations in life wherein we suddenly realise what an inadequate thing human speech is. There are some things that others know which we have never told them, and would ever be unable to tell them. There are some feelings within us for which no language can find expression. Mrs. Agar was simply stupefied. When God does mete out punishment here on earth, He does so with an overflowing measure. This devoted mother did not even evince anxiety as to the welfare of her son, for whose sake she had made so many blunders, so many futile plots. Jem brought Arthur into the room, and led him to an arm-chair. There was that steady masterfulness in his manner which comes to those who have looked on death in many forms and whom nothing can dismay. He offered no unnecessary assistance or advice, did not fussily loosen Arthur's necktie, or perform any of those small inappropriate offices which some would have deemed necessary under the circumstances. He knew quite well that this was no matter of a necktie or a collar. Mrs. Agar seated herself on a sofa opposite, and slowly swayed her body backwards and forwards. She was one of those persons who can never separate mental anguish from physical pain. They have but one way of expressing both, and possibly of feeling both. Her hands were clasped on her lap, her head on one side, her lips drawn back as if in agony. She even went so far as to breathe laboriously. Thus they remained; Jem watching Arthur, Dora watching Jem, who seemed to ignore her presence. It was Mrs. Agar who spoke first, angrily and bitterly. “What is the good of standing there?” she said to Jem. “Can't you find something more useful to do than that?” Jem looked at her, first with surprise and then with something very nearly approaching contempt. “I am waiting,” he replied, “for Ruthine. He is a doctor.” “Who wants a doctor now? What is the good of a doctor now--now that Seymour is dead? I don't know what he is doing here, at any rate, meddling.” “Arthur wants a doctor,” replied Jem. “Can you not see that he is in a sort of trance? He hears and sees nothing. He is quite unconscious.”