Medway was lying well up upon his pillows, staring at the light upon the wall. He had sent away the nurse. He did not speak, and Hagar, moving quietly, went here and there in the large room, that was as large as an audience chamber. At the windows she drew the jalousies yet closer, making a rich twilight in the room. There were flowers on a table, and she brought fresh water and filled the bowl in which they lived. There were books in a small case, and, kneeling before it, she read over their titles, and taking one from the shelf went softly through it, looking at the pictures. At last, with it still in her hand, she came to her accustomed seat near the bed. "It's a bad day for you," she said simply. "I am very sorry." "Do you object to my swearing?" "Not especially, if it helps you." "It won't--I'll put it off.... Oh--h...." He turned his head and shoulders as best he could, until his face was buried in the pillows. The bed shook with his heavy, gasping sobs.... It did not last. Ashendynes were not apt long to indulge in that kind of thing. Medway pulled a good oar out of it. The room very soon became perfectly still again. When the silence was broken, he asked her what she was reading, and then if she had seen anything of the city. Presently he told her to sing. He thought he might sleep; he hadn't slept much last night. "I must have had a presentiment of this damned thing--Go on and sing!" She crooned "Dixie" and "Swanee River" and "Annie Laurie," but it was of no use. He could not sleep. "Of all things to come to me, this--!... Why, I should like to be out in the desert this minute, with a caravan.... O God!" She brought him cool water. "I'm sorry--I'm sorry!" she said. As she put down the glass, he held her by the sleeve. A twisted smile, half-wretched, half with a glint of cheer, crossed his face. "Do you know, Gipsy, I could grow right fond of you." CHAPTER XXI AT ROGER MICHAEL'S On an early April afternoon in the year 1902 a man and woman were crossing, with much leisureliness, Trafalgar Square. "We won't get run over! It isn't like Paris." "Aren't you tired, Molly? Don't you want a hansom?" "Tired? No! What could make me tired a day like this? I want to go stroke the lions." They gravely went and did so. "Poor old British Lion!--Listen!" News was being cried. "_Details of fight at Bushman's Kop!_" Christopher Josslyn left the lions, ran across and got a paper, then returned. "A small affair!" he said. "How interminably the thing drags out!" "But they'll have peace directly now." "Yes--but it's Poor old Lion, just the same--"