"Well, Cydonia," she rose as she spoke, for the Bishop had snatched a quick look at the clock--"Have you made up your mind about the Tableaux, dear?" "I think so, Madre. I think it sounds ... nice." "You blessed child," said McTaggart in his heart. CHAPTER V McTaggart lay in bed, his eyes half-closed, watching the gray light spread from under the blind. His head ached and he felt unusually tired and heavy, bound down to his pillow by invisible chains. From the sitting-room beyond came the clatter of plates, boards creaking in the wake of his housekeeper's step, and through the open window stole a muffled steady hum--the day-song of the London streets. A door banged loudly, and blessed silence followed. He drew the bed-clothes tighter under his chin. But now sleep had fled and into his brain thoughts rushed swiftly as though against his will; a baffling succession of events and surmises, throwing up pictures before his closed eyes. He reached out a hand in search of his watch and found that the hour was close upon ten. A vast dissatisfaction settled down upon him. "Another day to be lived through?" it whispered in his ear. He felt a sick disgust for this business of life. His eyes, from under their heavy lids, roaming about the room, marked on his dressing-table, without exultation, the little heap of silver and gold and crinkled bank-notes, thrown among his brushes from overnight. In his fastidious mood the sight brought no joy, merely a memory of the long hot hours, with their inevitable accompaniment of frequent drinks. For the gambler's instinct was not his. He played carelessly, more as a means to pass the time than from any feverish attraction for the game. And Fortune, that fickle jade, had stood by his side, tempting his indifference with a long run of luck. He wondered as he lay there how Fantine could stand the life, night after night watch the same sordid scene, with that slightly aloof and mocking air of hers that warred with the welcome he read in her eyes. He wondered, drearily, if the game could pay? He wondered what was to be the end of it all? It was not a woman's work, the strain was too great. For he knew the risks that underlay the affair. He knew that she lived in fear of the police. What a horrible atmosphere! He shivered in his bed. He wished now he had not won. That heap of money there seemed to prolong the struggle of her days. How pretty she was! He stirred restlessly, conjuring up her picture against the dark blind. With something beyond beauty, that inexpressible charm of the subtle Parisian, conscious of her power. Something hyper-feminine set her apart from the women of that other world in which he moved. Delicately rounded, with tiny hands and feet, witty, provocative, dangerously sweet, she showed a curious contrast to the modern English girl with her sporting instincts and brusque, boyish speech.