She was devoutly thankful she hadn’t killed him. He’d live to write more books—perhaps better ones. Might get some drama into them after that seismic upheaval inside him that must have astonished him as much as herself. . . . Might even marry again, although he’d done well enough as a bachelor. She doubted if he cared deeply about domestic routine. He’d had his grand passion—like Lee Clavering over that strange Countess Zattiany she’d heard so much about. Doubtful if Clavering would have written a really great play if Zattiany hadn’t shocked him out of his pleasant pastures into a tropical jungle. He might be dour to look at and none too expansive socially, but it was evident his imagination worked at white heat, and no doubt he was grateful whether he admitted it or not. Eustace would live to be grateful to _her_. At all events one thing hadn’t happened. She remembered that sometime last night she had experienced a fleeting fear that that horrible episode would destroy all she had learned—recall all she had banished—during this past auriferous year, and she would be as hard and hating and handicapped as when she had just escaped from her old life . . . destroy all power of appreciation and enjoyment, all her new adaptability, all interest in the future. But all experience counted, apparently. She would always think of last night with a shudder, but at least it had not revived her old abhorrence of men because one man had mauled her—as other men had tried to, sometimes had done, in the past. A second neurosis might be worse than the first. No doubt her sense of justice, of proportion, developing unconsciously, had balanced her unalterably. She put on a dark blue skirt and sweater, automatically rejecting the bright colors she preferred, and even powdered her face to subdue her own color. Noblesse oblige! And if she didn’t feel hard she certainly felt severely practical as she went down to meet Dr. Pelham. Romance had toppled over the horizon. He looked at her keenly as he entered and asked professionally: “I hope you got a little sleep?” “Disgraceful, but I did. Reaction, no doubt. Where’s Elsie?” He answered evasively. “She’s rather tired. No doubt she’ll be over later.” “She’s angry with me because she thinks I shot Eustace on purpose. I never knew Elsie to be unreasonable before.” “Oh—I’m sure she can’t think that! But she’s very sensitive under that calm exterior, and she had a bad shock last night. I suppose you haven’t seen my patient?” “Nurse said I couldn’t.” “She must get some sleep as the other nurse can’t be here before night. Perhaps you’ll sit with him for a few hours?” Gita turned pale, but answered steadily: “Certainly, if you think he can stand having me near him. He probably knows it was I who shot him—might feel a trifle nervous.” Dr. Pelham smiled for the first time. “I’ll put him to sleep again.” And he nodded and ran up the stair.