David left the window, but still he did not sit. For a while he walked up and down restlessly, but at length came to a standstill between Elizabeth and the fire. He was so close to her that she had only to put out her hand and it would have touched his. He stood looking, now at the miniatures on the wall, now at the fire which burned with a steady red glow. He was half turned from Elizabeth, but she could see his face. It was strained and thin. The flesh had fallen away, leaving the great bones prominent. It was Elizabeth who broke the silence, and she said what she had not meant to say. “David, are you better? Are you sleeping?” “No,” he said shortly. “And you won’t let me help?” “I didn’t say so.” “Did you think I didn’t know?” Elizabeth’s voice was very sad. They had fallen suddenly upon an intimate note. It was a note that he had never touched with Mary. That they should be talking like this filled him with a dazed surprise. He as well as she was taking it for granted that she had given him sleep, and could give him sleep again. He gave himself a sudden shake. “I’m going away,” he said in a harder voice. There was a pause. “I’m glad,” said Elizabeth, and then there was silence again. This time it was David who spoke, and he spoke in the hot, insistent tones of a man who argues a losing case. “One can’t go on not sleeping. That is what I said to old Wyatt Byng to-day.” “Sir Wyatt Byng?” said Elizabeth quickly. “Yes—I saw him. Skeffington would have me see him, but what’s the use? He swears I shall sleep, if I take the stuff he’s given me—the latest French fad—but I don’t sleep. I seem to have lost the way—and one can’t go on.” He paused, and then said frowning: “It’s so odd——” “Odd?” “Yes—so odd—sleep. Such an odd thing. It was so easy once. Now it’s so difficult that it can’t be done. Why? No one knows. No one knows what sleep is——” His voice trailed away. He was strung like a wire that is ready to snap, and on the borders of consciousness, just out of sight, something waited; he turned his head sharply, as if the thing he dreaded might be there—behind him—in the shadow. Instead, he saw Elizabeth in a golden light like a halo. It swam before his tired eyes, a glow with a rainbow edge. Out of the heart of it she looked at him with serious, tender eyes. Beyond, in the gloom, there lurked such a horror as made him catch his breath, and here at his side—in this room, peace, safety, and sleep—sleep, the one thing in heaven or earth desired and desirable. A sort of shudder passed over him, and he repeated his own last words in a low, altered voice. “One _can’t_ go on. Something must give way. Sometimes I feel as if it might give now—at any moment. Then there’s madness—when one can’t sleep. Am I going mad, Elizabeth?” Elizabeth caught his hand and held it. He was so near that the impulse carried her away. Her clasp was strong, warm, and vital. “No, my dear, no,” she said. Then with a catch in her voice: