In the morning she found her rooms very tidy and her box packed. She had put in the boys' portraits, because one must always remember the boys. She got a cab and she caught a train, and she reached the seaside cottage. Its little windows blinked firelit welcome to her, as she blundered almost blindly out of the station fly and up the narrow path edged with sea-shells. Milly had telegraphed. Mrs Beale was there, tremulous, kindly, effective; with armchairs wheeled to the April fire--cups of tea, timid, gentle solicitude. "My word, Miss, but you do look done up," said she. "The kettle's just on the boil, and I'll wet you a cup o' tea this instant minute, and I've a perfect picture of a chick a-roastin' ready for your bit o' dinner." Jane leaned back in the cushioned chair and looked round the quiet, pleasant little room. For the moment it seemed good to have a new place to be unhappy in. But afterwards, when Mrs Beale had gone and she was alone in the house, there was time to think--all the time there had ever been since the world began--all the time that there would ever be till the world ended. Of that night, too, Jane cannot remember everything; but she knows that she did not sleep, and that her eyes were dry: very dry and burning, as though they had been licked into place between their lids by a tongue of flame. It was a long night: a spacious night, with room in it for more memories of Edgar than she had known herself mistress of. Edgar, truculent schoolboy; Edgar at Oxford, superior to the point of the intolerable; Edgar journalist, novelist, war correspondent--always friend; Edgar going to America to lecture, and make the fortune that--he said--would make all things possible. He had said that on the last evening, when a lot of them--boys and girls, journalists, musicians, art students--had gone to see him off at Euston. He had said it at the instant of farewell, and had looked a question. Had she said "Yes"--or only thought it? She had often wondered that, even when her brain was clear. Then--she pushed away the next thought with both hands, and drove herself back to the day when the schoolboy next door whom she had admired and hated, saved her pet kitten from the butcher's dog--an heroic episode with blood in it and tears. Edgar's voice, the touch of his hand, the swing of his waltz-step--the way his eyes smiled before his mouth did. How bright his eyes were--and his hands were very strong. He was strong every way: he would fight for his life--even with the sea. Great, smooth, dark waves seemed rushing upon her in the quiet room; she could hear the sound of them on the beach. Why had she come near the sea? It was the same sea that---- She pushed the waves away with both hands. The church clock struck two. "You mustn't go mad, you know," she told herself very gently and reasonably, "because of the boys."