"Oh, my God! And I've laughed at that, too!" Barbara put her arm round her. "You didn't, darling. Well, if you did--it is a little funny, you know. I'm afraid I've laughed a bit." "Oh, _you_--that doesn't matter. You helped to write it." Then Barbara broke out. "Oh, don't, Fanny, don't, _don't_ talk about his poor book. I can't _bear_ it." "We're both idiots," said Fanny. "Imbeciles." She paused, drying her eyes. "He liked the snowdrops you brought him," she said. Barbara thought: "And the snowdrops he brought _me_." He had caught cold that day, picking them. They had withered in the glass in her bedroom. She left Fanny, only to come upon Horry in his agony. Horry stood in the window of the dining-room, staring out and scowling at the snow. "Damn the snow!" he said. "It's killed him." "It hasn't, Horry," she said; "he'll get better." "He won't get better. If this beastly frost holds he hasn't got a chance." "Horry dear, the doctor says he's better." "He doesn't. He says his temperature's got no business to go up." "All the same--" "Supposing he does think him better. Supposing he doesn't know. Supposing he's a bleating idiot.... I expect the dear old pater knows how he is a jolly sight better than anybody can tell him.... And you know you're worrying about him yourself. So's the mater. She's been crying." "She's jealous of the nurse. That's what's the matter with her." "Jealous? Tosh! That nurse is an idiot. She's sent his temperature up first thing." "Horry, old thing, you must buck up. You mustn't let your nerve go like this." "Nerve? Your nerve would go if you were me. I tell you, Barbara, I wouldn't care a hang about his being ill--I mean I shouldn't care so infernally if I'd been decent to him. ... But you were right I was a cad, a swine. Laughing at him." "So was I, Horry. I laughed at him. I'd give anything not to have." "You didn't matter...." He was silent a moment. Then he swung round, full to her. His face burned, his eyes flashed tears; he held his head up to stop them falling. "Barbara--if he dies, I'll kill myself." That evening Mr. Waddington's temperature went up another point. Ralph, calling about nine o'clock, found Barbara alone in the library, huddled in a corner of the sofa, with her pocket-handkerchief beside her, rolled in a tight, damp ball. She started as he came in. "Oh," she said, "I thought you were the doctor." "Do you want him?" "Yes. Fanny does. She's frightened." "Shall I go and get him?" "No. No. They've sent Kimber. Oh, Ralph, I'm frightened, too." "But he's getting on all right. He is really. Ransome says so." "I know. I've told them that. But they won't believe it. And _I_ don't now. He'll die: you'll see he'll die. Just because we've been such pigs to him." "Nonsense; that wouldn't make him--" "I'm not so sure. It's awful to see him lying there, like a lamb--so good--when you think how we've hunted and hounded him." "He didn't know, Barbara. We never let him know."