Prothero had not yet asked himself his intentions or even wondered what he was there for, since, as it seemed, it was not to talk to Laura. There had been opportunities, moments, pauses in the endless procession of paragraphs, when he had tried to draw Laura out; but Laura was not to be drawn. She had a perfect genius for retreating, vanishing from him backwards, keeping her innocent face towards him all the time, but backing, backing into her beloved obscurity. He felt that there were things behind her that forbade him to pursue. Of the enchantment that had drawn her in the beginning, she had not said a word. When it came to that they were both silent, as by a secret understanding and consent. They were both aware of his genius as a thing that was and was not his, a thing perpetually present with them but incommunicable, the very heart of their silence. One evening, calling about nine o'clock, he found her alone. She told him that Papa was very tired and had gone to bed. "It is very good of you," she said, "to come and sit with him." Prothero smiled quietly. "May I sit with _you_ now?" "Please do." They sat by the fireside, for even in mid-June the night was chilly. A few scattered ashes showed at the lowest bar of the grate. Laura had raked out the fire that had been lit to warm her father. Papa, she explained, was not always as Mr. Prothero saw him now. His illness came from a sunstroke. He said, yes; he had seen cases like that in India. "Then, do you think----" She paused, lest she should seem to be asking for a professional opinion. "Do I think? What do I think?" "That he'll get better?" He was silent a long time. "No," he said. "But he need never be any worse. You mustn't be afraid." "I _am_ afraid. I'm afraid all the time." "What of?" "Of some awful thing happening and of my not having the nerve to face it." "You've nerve enough for anything." "You don't know me. I'm an utter coward. I can't face things. Especially the thing I'm afraid of." "What is it? Tell me." He leaned nearer to her, and she almost whispered. "I'm afraid of his having a fit--epilepsy. He _might_ have it." "He might. But he won't. You mustn't think of it." "I'm always thinking of it. And the most--the most awful thing is that--I'm afraid of _seeing_ it." She bowed her head and looked away from him as if she had confessed to an unpardonable shame. "Poor child. Of course you are," said Prothero. "We're all afraid of something. I'm afraid, if you'll believe it, of the sight of blood." "You?" "I." "Oh--but you wouldn't lose your head and run away from it." "Wouldn't I?" "No. Or you couldn't go and be a doctor. Why," she asked suddenly, "did you?"