Directly the meal was over, she rose, murmuring that she had 'things to see to,' and went out, leaving the men with their cigars. But instead of going to the store cupboard, where the old Khansamah awaited her, armed with his daily _hissab_,[1] she slipped into the drawing-room, sat down at her bureau, and leaned her head on her hand; honestly hoping that Theo might leave the house without coming to her. For all that, the sound of his elastic step brought a light into her eyes. She did not rise, or look round; and he came and stood beside her. "Not quite yourself this morning, old lady?" he asked. "Anything really wrong? Fever? Headache?" She caught the note of anxiety, and with a quick turn of her head kissed the fingers resting on her shoulder. "No, darling, neither. Don't worry yourself. I'm perfectly well." "Sure?" "Quite sure." "Good." And he departed, whistling softly; clear sign that all was well with his world. But twenty minutes later when Paul came in to look for a strayed pipe, he found Honor, quite oblivious of 'things,' crying quietly behind her hands. He retreated hastily; but she heard him and looked up. "Don't go, Paul. I want you." No three words in the language could have pierced him with so keen a thrust of happiness. "Do you mean . . . can I help you?" he asked eagerly. "I felt sure something was wrong." "Did you? I'm a bad actress! But . . it's about Baby,--the other Paul," she added, smiling through wet lashes. "I have just had a letter from Mrs Rivers that makes me want to pack my boxes and go straight back to Dalhousie." "And shall you? Is it serious enough for that?" "Oh, how _can_ one tell?" she cried desperately, her voice breaking on the words. "It mightn't seem serious to you. He has fever, and a touch of dysentery, and terrible fits of crying with his double teeth. Mrs Rivers seems anxious; and of course one thinks . . . of convulsions. It all sounds rather a molehill, doesn't it, after the horrors we have been living in here? And perhaps only a mother would make a mountain out of it. But I think mothers must have God's leave to be foolish . . . sometimes!" Fresh tears welled up, and she hid her face again. Paul could only wait beside her tongue-tied, half-sitting on the edge of the writing-table, wondering what dear, unfathomable impulse had led her to admit him to the sanctuary of her sorrow; realising, so far as a masculine brain can realise, something of the struggle involved in woman's twofold responsibility--to the man, and to the gift of the man.