Mr. Sabin stood up. He had arrived at a determination. "Helène," he said, "I am going away for an hour, perhaps two. Will you take care of him until I return?" "Yes." "You will promise not to leave him, or to send for a doctor?" "I will promise, unless he seems to grow worse." "He will not get worse, he will be conscious in less than an hour. Keep him with you as long as you can, he will be safer here. Remember that!" "I will remember," she said. He left the room, and soon she heard the sound of carriage wheels rolling down the avenue. His departure was an intense relief to her. She watched the carriage, furiously driven, disappear along the road. Then she returned to Wolfenden's side. For nearly an hour she remained there, bathing his head, forcing now and then a little brandy between his teeth, and watching his breathing become more regular and the ghastly whiteness leaving his face. And all the while she was thoughtful. Once or twice her hands touched his hair tenderly, almost caressingly. There was a certain wistfulness in her regard of him. She bent close over his face; he was still apparently as unconscious as ever. She hesitated for a moment; the red colour burned in one bright spot on her cheeks. She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, whispering something under her breath. Almost before she could draw back, he opened his eyes. She was overwhelmed with confusion, but seeing that he had no clear knowledge of what had happened, she rapidly recovered herself. He looked around him and then up into her face. "What has happened?" he asked. "Where am I?" "You are at the Lodge," she said quietly. "You called to see Mr. Sabin this morning, you know, and I am afraid you must have quarrelled." "Ah! it was that beastly stick," he said slowly. "He struck at me suddenly. Where is he now?" She did not answer him at once. It was certainly better not to say that she had seen him driven rapidly away only a short time ago, with his horses' heads turned to Deringham Hall. "He will be back soon," she said. "Do not think about him, please. I cannot tell you how sorry I am." He was recovering himself rapidly. Something in her eyes was sending the blood warmly through his veins; he felt better every instant. "I do not want to think about him," he murmured, "I do not want to think about any one else but you." She looked down at him with a half pathetic, half humorous twitching of her lips. "You must please not make love to me, or I shall have to leave you," she said. "The idea of thinking about such a thing in your condition! You don't want to send me away, do you?" "On the contrary," he answered, "I want to keep you always with me." "That," she said briefly, "is impossible." "Nothing," he declared, "is impossible, if only we make up our minds to it. I have made up mine!" "You are very masterful! Are all Englishmen as confident as you?"