‘There, figs won’t hurt him, will they, Madame Kudner? Now, we’ll take in the dish; come along. Why, you’ve got no shoes on! Well, jump upon my back,’ and he raced round the room with the child, carrying the piece of massive church plate which did duty for a dessert dish in their curious establishment. Little Pierre sat gravely in the corner of the divan with his feet stretched out straight in front of him, munching the green figs and gazing with rapture at the purple lusciousness which each fresh bite discovered. Travers promised to bring him upstairs when he appeared sleepy, and soon the whole house was still. The two had a long serious conversation, and Pierre was instructed in full detail how to make himself a little paper punt, which he was to float down the river next evening with a wax taper in it; it was to be saturated with oil, so that when the taper had burnt down the whole boat would flare up splendidly and go down the stream like a real burning ship. Just as this exciting point was reached, a gentle tap was heard outside the window. Travers listened for a moment, then he hurried off his _protégé_, popped him down on his bed, told him he must go to sleep at once, kissed him on both cheeks, and ran downstairs. He opened the verandah windows, at which the taps had become more and more persistent. Grace entered in a loose white dress. ‘Why have you come here? I told you not to on any account.’ Grace stopped short, it was the first time he had spoken to her in that hard voice. ‘You said you were coming down to the cottage. I saw all the servants’ lights put out here. I was tired of waiting.’ ‘I was playing with Pierre.’ ‘Pierre, at this time of night! You prefer anything to me; even a child.’ ‘Even a child! That’s good. Children are the only perfectly satisfactory companions in the world. They never seriously reproach you, and as for beauty, no woman can touch them.’ ‘George, let me go away. Let me go back to London, to my old life.’ ‘I tell you once for all, I can’t allow my wife to go on the stage.’ ‘It is too hard, too hard. You make life a perfect torture to me. Why won’t you let me try to forget you, and my love, my unhappy love for you?’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous; and for Heaven’s sake don’t make such a row. How do I make you miserable?’ ‘I wouldn’t mind if I never saw you at all. When you were quite away at Boulogne the other day, I could set to work at things I wanted to do quite happily; but when I know you are near me, and I am hoping to see you come in at any moment, my hope tortures me. They say hope is a pleasant feeling, I think it is the keenest form of torture the devil ever dressed up as an angel. I sit there in that cottage and wait, and as time goes on all my love turns sick; I get to hate you for causing me such pain. I feel as if I could kill you sometimes, to put an end to it, once for all.’