Nan's forehead puckered at the cruelty of such logic. “But I don't understand. It seems so horrible that we should sit here, with a fire burning and everything comfortable, saying things like that.” “It is horrible. It's so horrible that, if I were to give him everything I have, he'd still go to the devil. He's a drowning man and he'll drag down everyone who tries to drag him out.” She clung to her husband aghast at this painful glimpse of reality. “But I still don't understand. Why---- Why should he be like that? He's kind, and he's gentle, and he makes children love him.” “You want to know? And you won't be hurt if I say something very terrible?” “I don't mind being hurt--I'm that already.” “I think it's because of Jehane--because of what she's left undone. She never brought any song to her marriage--never made any joy for him or happiness.” “And because of that he's to----” “Yes. Because of that he's to be allowed to go under. It's chivalry, not justice. At sea one saves the women and children first. He's a man.” In quick revulsion from this ugliness of other people's sordidness, he bent over her, brushing his lips against her cheek and hair. “Shall I ever grow tired of kissing you, I wonder, my own little Nan?” And so, in one another's arms, for a moment they shut out the memory of tragedy. But the angels had not done with Ocky Waffles yet. CHAPTER XVII--A HOUSE BUILT ON SAND There was one more letter from Jehane. She wrote that Ocky had just returned from London, where he had been on important business. She understood that he had been too hurried to be able to visit Topbury. He was working very hard--too hard for his health. He was overambitious. While she was writing he had come in to tell her that he was off again to London. Then followed domestic chatter: how Glory was taking music-lessons so that she might play to her father when she grew older; and how Eustace had a new tricycle; and how Riska already had an eye for the boys. This was the last letter, very foolish and very brave--then silence and suspense. The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed in sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings and walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to sweat. All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath. “Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?” “No, I was awake. I thought---- I thought it was I who had made you rouse.” “I've not slept a wink since I lay down.” “Neither have I.”