At the end Mrs. Lansing said nothing. Instead, she petted Alix, carried her off to bed, and kept her there for three days. In her waking hours Alix added spasmodic bits to her confession--sage reflections after the event, dreamy “I wonders” that speculated in the past and in the measure of her emotions. On the fourth day Alix got up, but on the fifth she stayed in bed. Mrs. Lansing found her pale and frightened. She had been crying. “Alix,” she whispered, kneeling beside the bed, “what is it?” Alix told her amid sobs. “Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Lansing, throwing her arms about her, “don’t cry. Don’t worry. The strength will come with the need. In the end you’ll be glad. So will Gerry. So will all of us.” “It isn’t that,” said Alix, faintly. “Oh, it isn’t that! I’m just thinking and thinking how terrible it would have been if I had run away--really run away! I keep imagining how awful it would have been. It is a nightmare.” “Call it a nightmare if you like, sweetheart, but just remember that you are awake.” [Illustration: Drawn by Reginald Birch “’I USED TO THINK I COULD GO HOME, THAT IT WAS JUST A QUESTION OF BUYING A TICKET. BUT--’”] “Yes,” said Alix, softly, “I am awake now. Mother, I want to go to Red Hill. I know it’s early, but I want to go now. I want to watch the Hill come to life and dress up for the summer. It will amuse me. It’s long since I have watched for the first buds and the first swallows. I won’t mind the melting snow and the mud. It’s so long since I’ve seen clean country mud. I want to smell it.” “You don’t know how bleak the Hill can be before spring,” objected Mrs. Lansing. “Will it be any bleaker with me there than when you were alone?” asked Alix. Mrs. Lansing came over to her and kissed her. “No, dear,” she said. CHAPTER X In the squalid Hôtel d’Europe Gerry occupied a large room that overlooked the quay. Even if there had been a better hotel in town, he would not have moved. Here he looked out on a scene of never-ceasing movement and color. The setting changed with the varying light. The false rains of the midsummer season came up in black horses of cloud, driven by a furious wind. They passed with a whirl and a veritable clatter of heavy drops hurled against the earth in a splendid volley. The long strip of the quay emptied at the first wet shot. The tatterdemalion crowd invaded every doorway and nook of shelter with screams and laughter. Then came the sun again, and back came the throng to the fresh-washed quay. Gerry missed his club, but for that he found a substitute. Cluny’s, next door to the hotel, was a strange hall of convivial pleasure. A massive square door, the masonry of which centuries had hardened and blackened to stone, gave on to a long hallway that ended in a wider dungeon. Here stood a bar and half a dozen teak tables. The floor was of stone flags.