She did, indeed, look hollow-eyed, and seeing this he rose and threw his cigar into the fire. So this was the first thing he had to do as an engaged man: he had to prevent his future wife from disturbing the household. He had to distract her attention from absurd fears, he had to impose his will upon her. Such a relationship between them, the husband and wife that were to be, would be a relationship that he did not wish to have with any one whom he ought to respect, much less any one whom he ought to love. The errand on which he was going was a repulsive one. If even a faint trace of romantic appreciation of the girl's beauty had survived in him, it would have vanished now. What he was going to do seemed like a denial of her identity, and yet it seemed necessary to do it. Had he still much of that "pity" left for her that had impelled him to offer her a home? They left the library and, as they passed the curtained door of the Warden's bedroom, Lady Dashwood said, "You'll go to bed afterwards, Jim?" She had spoken a moment ago of her own fatigue as if it was important. She had now forgotten it. Her mind was never occupied for many moments with herself, she was now back again at her old habit, thinking of him. He was tired. No wonder, worn out with worries, of his own making, alas! "Yes," said the Warden, "yes, dear." The lights in the hall were still burning, and he turned them out from the wall by the head of the staircase. Then they went up the short steps into the corridor. Lady Dashwood's room was at the end. At the door of her room Lady Dashwood paused and listened, and turned round to her brother as if she were going to say something. "What?" whispered the Warden, bending his head. "Oh, nothing!" said Lady Dashwood, as if exasperated with her own thoughts. Then she opened the door and went in, followed by the Warden. The room was not spacious, and the canopied bedstead looked too massive for the room. It had stood there through the reign of four of the Wardens, and Lady Dashwood had kept it religiously. Gwen was propped up on pillows at one side of it, looking out of her luminous eyes with great self-pity. Her dark hair was disordered. She glanced round tearfully and apprehensively. An acute observer might have detected that her alarm was a little over expressed: she had three spectators--and one of them was the Warden! Near her stood May Dashwood in a black dressing-gown illumined by her auburn hair. It was tied behind at her neck and spread on each side and down her back in glistening masses. She looked like some priestess of an ancient cult, ministering to a soul distressed. The Warden stood for a moment arrested, looking across at them, and then his eyes rested on May alone.