“What does it all mean?” asked Pelham. It was the first time he had thought of anything but his patient’s welfare, and he turned to Elsie with a puzzled frown, speculation dawning in his eyes. “Can’t you guess?” asked his sister shortly. “Well, if you can’t I’ll not tell you. If you don’t want that coffee, let’s go home.” “But surely you’ll stay—with her?” “No, I’ll not. I’m not sure I’ll ever enter this house again. Please come. I’ll make coffee for you at home.” “Very well. Certainly.” And with his brows still drawn and his mind racing he followed his sister out of the house. CHAPTER XV Gita blinked at the sunlight in astonishment. She had believed she was in for another wakeful night; and she remembered nothing but tearing off her clothes and flinging herself into bed—not caring if she never brushed her teeth again, nor washed her face. She must have fallen asleep at once! She preferred not to think at present, and there was safety in routine. She put on her dressing-gown and went down the hall to one of the two bathrooms the manor house boasted. Very ugly and unluxurious bathrooms, installed in the nineteenth century. After a cold shower her brain felt disconcertingly clear, but she hummed a tune and rubbed herself into a glow. As she left the bathroom she met the nurse in the hall. “How is the patient?” she asked politely. “His shoulder is very painful. I’ve just telephoned to Dr. Pelham, asking if I shall give him another opiate——I couldn’t take the responsibility of letting you see him,” she added hastily. “Oh, of course not. What time do you expect Dr. Pelham?” “He’ll come at once.” Gita nodded and went into her bedroom and dressed slowly. She was aware that she had slept off her cold fury, and felt something like sympathy for Eustace, disabled, and suffering, no doubt, as much in mind as in body. . . . Probably a man did have a grain of excuse when he loved a woman and despaired of winning her with charm and good manners. Lost his head, poor wretch . . . brain hopelessly confused by fumes of passion and all that . . . tumbled out of hard-won psychological differentiations straight into generalities. Passion must awaken passion; all that old tosh. . . . He must feel like a fool—worse than failure, for Eustace Bylant. . . . She did feel sorry for him, for she had admired him prodigiously, and loved him in a way.