He got out of bed, feeling ridiculously weak and emaciated, but with a luminous blot of wonder still floating in the background of his mind. This globe of soothing radiance so made apparent the near details of his past and present as that he had no difficulty in remembering where he was or what had detained him there. He felt no uneasiness over his condition, or any present desire to have it ended. For the moment he was blissfully content to gaze out of his window--that commanded obliquely an engaging little prospect of sunny sand and strolling figures--and to pleasantly scrutinise the picture as it passed, in silent camera-obscura, over the tables of his brain. Pain, emotion, and thirst were all absorbed in an enjoying, indefinite curiosity. But by-and-by, as he gazed, there wandered--or appeared to wander--into and across his perspective, a couple of figures whose mere presence there in company seemed to sadly shake his confidence in the assurance of his own convalescence. Apart, he might have admitted their reality. It was their conjunction that hipped his half-recovered sanity. For how should madame--that enigmatical _tireuse_--pair herself, out of all the little crowd, with Théroigne Lambertine, whom he had left in Belgium? Moreover, this was a transformed Théroigne--a Théroigne not of ungainly skirts and preposterous hat, but one that had at length acquired the first adventitious means to an expression of her wonderful beauty; a Théroigne of lawn and paduasoy, of waking airs and graces, of defiance still, but of the defiance that had superbly trodden persecution underfoot. Then in a moment the vision vanished from his ken. “I will go to bed again,” he thought. “I have something yet to sleep off.” Presently he reached out and rang a bell that stood on a table beside him. Simultaneously with the jangle of it, Æolian sounds ceased somewhere down below, a slow step came up the stairs, and a heavy man entered the room, consciously, as if it were a confessional-box. “Good morning,” said Ned. “I think I’m better.” The heavy man nodded--a salutation compound of respect and satisfaction--paused an embarrassed minute, turned round, and made as if to retreat. “Hallo!” exclaimed Ned. The man faced about. “What day is it?” said Ned. “Sunday,” answered the man. “You are my landlord?” “Aye.” “Your wife is out?” “Aye.” “At church?” “Aye.” “And you are keeping house?” “Oh aye.” “Has any one called on me during--eh?” “The lady.” “What lady?” “Her wi’ the parly name.” “What name?” “Never cud say.” “Well, what did she come for?” “For to dress your arm.” “My arm!” Ned fell back in astonishment. The heavy man immediately made for the door. “Here!” cried Ned. The man slewed himself round rebellious. “Was that you playing down below?” “Aye.” “Harp?” “Aye.” This time he got fairly outside, shut himself on to the landing, apparently dwelt there a minute, and, secure in his retreat, opened the door again and thrust in his head.