She closed her eyes indifferently. She had said that she was tired; the word was as good as another where none were adequate to express her utter exhaustion. She felt that, in a sense, she was in luck to be so tired that she could not think.... She knew that later she must brace herself to an examination of the nightmare experience of the afternoon, to renew her struggle against the devils of her imagination; but for the moment her weakness was her safe-guard, and she could lie relaxed and thoughtless, mesmerised by the flooding sunshine and the pulsing scents and the quick movements of the man beside her. She wondered what he was doing, but she was too tired to open her eyes, or to interpret to herself the faint sounds she heard. She thought dreamily that he was as kind as Elsbeth. She was grateful to him for not talking to her. He was a wonderfully understanding person.... He might have known her for years.... He made her feel safe ... that was a great gift.... If she, Alwynne, had been like that, kind and reassuring, to poor little Louise--if only she had understood--Louise would have come to her, then, instead of brooding herself to death.... Poor Louise.... Poor unhappy Louise.... And after all she had not been able to kill herself.... She was still alive, lying in wait for her, though she knew that Alwynne could not help her.... She would never go away, though they had left her outside in the cold--in the cold of the wood--and were safe in this warm summerland ... she would be waiting when they came out again.... She shuddered as she thought of retracing her steps. She would ask Roger to take her home another way.... She would not have to explain.... He had not wanted explanation.... She was passionately grateful to him because he had not overwhelmed her with questions at their meeting. She could never explain, of course, because people would think her mad.... They might even send her to an asylum, if she told them.... She longed for the relief of confession, yet who would believe that she was merely a sane woman rendered desperate by evil dreams? Not Clare, certainly--not Elsbeth, though they loved her.... She would just have to go on fighting her terrors as best she could, till she or they were crushed.... She sighed hopelessly and opened her eyes. "Had a doze? Good! Tea's ready! I expect you want it," said Roger cheerfully. She was surprised into normality, and began to smile as she looked about her. The rickety table had been covered by a gay, chequered cloth. There was crockery, and a little green tea-pot, and a pile of short-bread at her elbow. A spirit-lamp and kettle were shelved incongruously between trays of daffodils. Roger sat upon an upturned flower-pot, and beamed at her. "Oh, how jolly!" cried Alwynne, the Alwynne once more of his former acquaintance. "Where did it come from?" He showed her a cupboard against the wall, half hidden by a canopy of smilax.