Ginger was wonderful. In that curious, detached spirit that had come upon her, she examined him impartially, and gratitude welled up from the very depths of her. There he sat, saying nothing and doing nothing, as if he knew that all she needed, the only thing that could keep her sane in this world of nightmare, was the sight of that dear, flaming head of his that made her feel that the world had not slipped away from her altogether. Ginger did not move. The room had grown almost dark now. A spear of light from a street lamp shone in through the window. Sally got up abruptly. Slowly, gradually, inch by inch, the great suffocating cloud which had been crushing her had lifted. She felt alive again. Her black hour had gone, and she was back in the world of living things once more. She was afire with a fierce, tearing pain that tormented her almost beyond endurance, but dimly she sensed the fact that she had passed through something that was worse than pain, and, with Ginger's stolid presence to aid her, had passed triumphantly. “Go and have dinner, Ginger,” she said. “You must be starving.” Ginger came to life like a courtier in the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. He shook himself, and rose stiffly from his chair. “Oh, no,” he said. “Not a bit, really.” Sally switched on the light and set him blinking. She could bear to be looked at now. “Go and dine,” she said. “Dine lavishly and luxuriously. You've certainly earned...” Her voice faltered for a moment. She held out her hand. “Ginger,” she said shakily, “I... Ginger, you're a pal.” When he had gone. Sally sat down and began to cry. Then she dried her eyes in a business-like manner. “There, Miss Nicholas!” she said. “You couldn't have done that an hour ago... We will now boil you an egg for your dinner and see how that suits you!” CHAPTER XI. SALLY RUNS AWAY If Ginger Kemp had been asked to enumerate his good qualities, it is not probable that he would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might have started by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well, but after that he would have had to chew the pencil in prolonged meditation. And, even if he could eventually have added one or two further items to the catalogue, tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them. Yet, by staying away from Sally during the next few days he showed considerable delicacy. It was not easy to stay away from her, but he forced himself to do so. He argued from his own tastes, and was strongly of opinion that in times of travail, solitude was what the sufferer most desired. In his time he, too, had had what he would have described as nasty jars, and on these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed to sit and think things over and fight his battle out by himself.