The touch of her lips on his fingers almost unnerved him. The lips were so weak, so loving, so piteously grateful as--piece by piece--they sucked down the melting pellets. Controlling himself for her sake, Ronnie realized a little of the self-control, of the unselfishness which had so long locked those weak lips from revealing their own danger. And again, at that realization, he felt his heart melting, even as the ice melted. "Good man!" It was the doctor--whispering. "She can't have too much of that. I've sent your taxi for the nurse. It's her first hemorrhage, I suppose?" "Yes--as far as I know." "H'm. I thought so. Frightening things, hemorrhages. But there's no cause for immediate alarm. I'll wait till the nurse comes, and give her a second injection. You'd better go down and look after your wife." On the landing, Smithers still waited. "Is she better, sir?" asked Smithers. "Much better, Smithers. She's out of danger. But you can't go in yet." Tiptoeing downstairs, Ronald Cavendish knew that the woman was watching him--blaming him. Half-way down, he hesitated. "I can't face Alie," he thought. "I can't face Alie." Then he turned, tiptoed upstairs again. Together, in silence, the son and the servant waited outside the mother's door. 4 Aliette, too, waited--waited downstairs in the dining-room where Kate had insisted on lighting a fire for her--waited and waited while the slow half-hours went by. She felt weary; but there was no sleep in her weariness. Her ears, keyed to acutest tension, magnified every whisper in the house of illness; Dr. Redbank's feet in the hall, the jar of the front door, the taxi chugging away, the faint creak of carpeted stairs, the fainter clink of crockery in the basement. At four o'clock Kate came in with a pot of coffee; at half-past, Smithers to ask if the nurse had arrived. Aliette suffered both maids to go without question. In that well-ordered home she felt herself the useless stranger. Her muscles yearned to be of use, to be doing something, anything, for Julia. "I owe her so much," she thought; "such a debt of gratitude." The impotence of her muscles stung her mind. Her mind ached with memories, memories of Julia, of her brusk kindliness, of her courage. "I wonder if she knew," thought Aliette. And at that, painfully, her mind conjured up the "scene" she had made--Julia comforting her--Julia's unspoken challenge--her own promise. "She knew then," thought Aliette. "She must have known. That was why she wanted to be certain--of me." At last the nurse arrived. At last Ronnie, tired out, white-faced, and unshaven, left his post on the landing and joined her. She asked him, "How is she?" "Better. Much better. She's asleep." "Isn't there anything I can do?" "No, dear, nothing." His voice seemed curiously toneless, and after two or three nervous puffs at a cigarette he again went upstairs.