"No, no, I'm not ill; I'm only tired," she sobbed, clutching at him with her two hands, and swaying where she stood. He took her in his arms and half dragged, half carried her from the room. On the narrow stairs they paused. "Let me go alone," she whispered. She tried to free herself from his grasp, failed, and laid her head back on his shoulder again; and he lifted her and carried her to her bed. He knelt down and took off her shoes. He sat beside her, supporting her while he let down her long, thin braids of hair. She looked up at him, and saw that there was still no knowledge in the frightened eyes that gazed at her; and when he would have unfastened the bodice of her gown, she pushed back his hands and held them. "No, no," she whimpered. "Go away. Go away." "Aggie--" "Go away, I tell you." "My God," he moaned, more smitten, more helpless than she. For, as she turned from him, he understood the height and depth of her tender perjury. She had meant to spare him for as long as it might be, because, afterwards (she must have felt), his own conscience would not be so merciful. He undressed her, handling her with his clumsy gentleness, and laid her in her bed. He had called the maid; she went bustling to and fro, loud-footed and wild-eyed. From time to time a cry came from the nursery where the little ones were left alone. Outside, down the street, Arty and Catty ran hand-in-hand to fetch the doctor, their sobbing checked by a mastering sense of their service and importance. And the man, more helpless than any child, clung to the woman's hand and waited with her for her hour. As he waited he looked round the shabby room, and saw for the first time how poor a place it was. Nothing seemed to have been provided for Aggie; nothing ever was provided for her; she was always providing things for other people. His eyes fastened on the Madonna di Gran Duca fading in her frame. He remembered how he had bought it for Aggie seven years ago. Aggie lay under the Madonna, with her eyes closed, making believe that she slept. But he could see by the fluttering of her eyelids that her spirit was awake and restless. Presently she spoke. "Arthur," she said, "I believe I'm going to have a nice quiet night, after all. But when--when the time comes, you're not to worry, do you hear? Kate and mother will come up and look after me. And you're to go away to-morrow, just as if nothing had happened." She paused. "The flannels," she said, "shall be washed and sent after you. You're not to worry." She was providing still. "Oh, Aggie--darling--don't." "Why not? _You_ ought to go to bed, because you'll have to get up so early to-morrow morning."