A bell rang somewhere in the hotel. Hannay came in and told her that there was luncheon in the sitting-room. She shook her head. He put his hand on her shoulder and spoke to her as if she had been a child. She must eat, he said; she would be no good if she did not eat. She got up and followed him. She ate and drank whatever he gave her. Then she went back to her husband, and watched beside him while the nurse went to her meal. The terrible thing was that she could do nothing for him. She could only wait and watch. The nurse came back in half an hour, and they sat there together, all the afternoon, one on each side of the bed, waiting and watching. Towards evening the doctor, who had come at midnight and in the morning, came again. He looked at Anne keenly and kindly, and his manner seemed to her to say that there was no hope. He made experiments. He brought a lighted candle and held it to the patient's eyes, and said that the pupils were still contracted. The nurse said nothing. She looked at Anne and she looked at the doctor, and when he went away, she made a sign to Anne to keep back while she followed him. Anne heard them talking together in low voices outside the door, and her heart ached with fear of what he would say to her presently. He sent for her, and she came to him in the sitting-room. He said, "There is no change." Her brain reeled and righted itself. She had thought he was going to say "There is no hope." "Will he get better?" she said. "I cannot tell you." The doctor seated himself and prepared to deal long and leisurely with the case. "It's impossible to say. He _may_ get better. He may even get well. But I should do wrong if I let you hope too much for that." "You can give _no_ hope?" she said, thinking that she uttered his real thought. "I don't say that. I only say that the chances are not--exclusively--in favour of recovery." "The chances?" "Yes. The chances." The doctor looked at her, considering whether she were a woman who could bear the truth. Her eyes assured him that she could. "I don't say he won't recover. It's this way," said he. "There's a clot somewhere on the brain. If it absorbs completely he may get well--perfectly well." "And if it does not absorb?" "He may remain as he is, paralysed down the left side. The paralysis may be only partial. He may recover the use of one limb and not the other. But he will be paralysed. Partially or completely." She pictured it. "Ah--but," she said, laying hold on hope again, "he will not die?" "Well--there may be further lesions--in which case--" "He will die?" "He may die. He may die any moment." She accepted it, abandoning hope. "Will there be any return of consciousness? Will he know me?"