He sighed heavily and sank down on a corner of the sofa. All night long body and mind had been on the rack; he was chill, faint, wearied to death. The prospect of another hysterical scene was almost more than he could endure, yet through all his heart yearned over his wife, for he realised that, great as was his own sorrow, hers was still harder to bear. He might reason with her till doomsday, he might prove over and again that for the night's catastrophe she was as free from blame as himself, yet Esmeralda, being Esmeralda, would turn her back on reason and persist in turning the knife in her own wound. Speech failed him; but the voiceless prayer of his heart found an answer, for no words that he could have spoken could have appealed to his wife's heart as did his silence and the helpless sorrow of his face. She came running to him, fell at his feet, and laid her beautiful head upon his knee. "Geoff, it's so hard, for I _was_ trying! In my own foolish way I was trying to please, you. I may have been hasty, I may have been rash, but I _did_ mean to do right.--I did try! I've loved you all the time, Geoff, but I was spoiled. You were too good to me. My nature was not fine enough to stand it. I _presumed_ on your love. I imagined, vain fool! that nothing could kill it, and then you opened my eyes. _You_ said yourself that I had worn you out.--It killed me, Geoff, to think you had grown tired!" "Joan, darling, let's forget all that. I've been at fault too; there were faults on both sides, but we have _always_ loved each other; the love was there just as surely as the sun is behind the clouds. And now ... we _need_ our love... I--I'm worn out, dear. I can't go through this if you fail me. Bury the past, forget it. You are my wife, I am your husband--we _need_ each other. Our little child!" They clung together, weeping. In each mind was a great o'ershadowing dread, but the dread was not the same. The father asked of himself-- Would the boy _die_? The mother--Would he live, blinded, maimed, crippled? The door opened, a small face peered in and withdrew. Pixie had seen the entwined arms, the heads pressed together, and realised that she was not needed. She crept away, and sat alone watching the slow dawn. The verdict of the specialists brought no lessening of the strain. It was too soon to judge; the shock was severe, and it was a question of strength holding out. Too soon to talk about the eyes. That must be left. There were injuries, no doubt, but in the present condition of inflammation and collapse it was only possible to wait. And to wait was, to the distracted mother, the most unbearable torture she could have had to endure.