"Perhaps, anyhow, the motive doesn't matter so much. It's what you do that will count, for it's possible--rather more than possible, I'm afraid--that he'll never be able to walk again." That stirred her, I could see. She whispered, tremulously: "Is that really true?"--and when I nodded slowly, she just bit her lip and said nothing ... nothing at all. It was as if she _couldn't_ speak. There came just then a terrific peal of thunder, vibrant above the muffled thudding of the engines, and I think I spoke some word or phrase of reassurance. But she just stared at me blankly--stared _through_ me almost; and then, in a queerly casual voice, remarked: "That was loud. I think I'll go down to June's cabin and see if it wakened her...." She went out, staggering against the roll and pitch of the boat, and not till we were calm in Calais Harbour did I see her again. III After that wild scene in mid-Channel, the rest of the journey to Paris lingers in my mind as a quiet and cool aftermath. The train at Calais was packed as only a French boat-train can be packed; I managed to secure seats in the first-class coach for Helen and June, but the latter elected to surrender hers to a lady who had been very ill during the crossing. So we sat on our suit-cases in the corridor, June and I; and there wasn't much room, even there, for the holiday season was at its height, and all the well-known advertised tours to Paris were in full swing. June had passed through Paris before, but had never stayed there or seen the city. "I should like to have done," she said, "but mother was always in a hurry to get through to somewhere else." "That's rather odd," I remarked, "considering that Paris is your mother's native place. One would have expected her to enjoy re-visiting the old familiar scenes." June answered quietly: "That's just the sort of thing she would hate most of all. She loathes sentiment about the past. That's why she likes America--because its beauty isn't so dreadfully steeped in memories ... Palm Beach, for instance." "You've been there? I suppose you've travelled rather a lot?" "Well, I've always joined mother abroad during college vacations, and now that I've finished my last year I daresay we should have practically lived abroad but for this--this awful accident...." She paused for a moment, and then went on: "Mother hates England, but _I_ don't. Do you know, there's one place more than any other that I've wanted to visit during the last few years, and I haven't had a chance yet?" "Where's that?" I asked, and she replied: "My own home at Hampstead. I used to love Hampstead Heath and the walk across Parliament Hill Fields to Highgate. I can remember it all from when I was a child." "And since then you haven't been at home at all?"