Gita wandered about the garden until he came down, but she thought neither of him nor of Eustace, but of Elsie. She must win her back. Life would be unendurable without Elsie. Of course she was in love with Eustace. Well, here was her chance. She could stay here, and read to him when he was better, correct his proofs, take his dictation if he felt inspired to write a story. . . . Ideal marriage. . . . Why had he been so blind? “Idiots, all of us.” And she sighed. Dr. Pelham emerged from the house and joined her. She wished she were actress enough to feign wifely anxiety. “How is he?” she asked, and knew that her tones were flat. “Well enough, so far. There’s always danger of infection, in spite of every precaution. I shall watch him, of course.” “You’ll stay on, then?” “Certainly. He’s my patient, to say nothing of old friendship. I have a vacation due me, and I’ll take it now.” They were both as emotional as the garden slugs, regarding each other as if their slender past were obliterated. “Tell Elsie to come along and not be a fool,” she said. “She’d be a brute to leave me alone. I don’t want to sit there all by myself, eaten up with remorse, and if you’ve put him to sleep we can talk.” His eyes, which had been almost blank, became keen once more. He opened his mouth as if to ask an irresistible question, then turned on his heel and was gone. CHAPTER XVI When Eustace had arrived with his luggage on the day after the wedding, Gita, anxious to make every amend for her thoughtlessness, had given him the state bedroom, Mrs. Carteret’s. One of the baths had been installed in the dressing-room and he had that side of the house to himself. Although she had entered this room many times since her grandmother’s death she had always avoided glancing at the bed, fearing her lively imagination would project a vision of the old lady, high on her pillows. She stood for a moment beside the bed after she had dismissed the nurse, wondering if she would always see Eustace there in the future. What a contrast! Her grandmother had looked a hundred. Eustace, the blood drained out of his face, narrowing his contours, looked years younger than his age. Almost a youth, in spite of his beard. Pathetic. No doubt, if she loved him she would be yearning over him with those maternal sensations authors of fiction were always reminding the reader—who should know the lesson by heart—surged up in every woman as soon as she fell in love. Well, she didn’t feel maternal a bit, but she certainly felt sorry for him. Elsie could do the maternalizing. Why didn’t she come? But Elsie had telephoned to Polly, who was with her at that moment. “I didn’t want Geoff to marry you,” she was saying. “I don’t mind telling you that. But Gita shan’t have him. I’d rather see him dead.”