‘It reminds me, Sheila,’ he began arduously, ‘of our first quarrel before we were married, the evening after your aunt Rose died at Llandudno—do you remember? You threw open the window, and I think—I saved your life.’ A pause followed. Then a queer, almost inarticulate voice added, ‘At least, I am afraid so.’ A cold and awful quietness fell on Sheila’s heart. She stared fixedly at the tuft of dark hair, the only visible sign of her husband, on the pillow. Then, taking up the basin of cold cornflour, she left the room. In a quarter of an hour she reappeared carrying a tray, with ham and eggs and coffee and honey invitingly displayed. She laid it down. ‘There is only one other question,’ she said, with perfect composure—‘that of money. Your signature as it appears on the—the document drawn up this morning, would, of course, be quite useless on a cheque. I have taken all the money I could find; it is in safety. You may, however, conceivably be in need of some yourself; here is five pounds. I have my own cheque-book, and shall therefore have no need to consider the question again for—for the present. So far as you are concerned, I shall be guided solely by Mr Bethany. He will, I do not doubt, take full responsibility.’ ‘And may the Lord have mercy on my soul!’ uttered a stifled, unfamiliar voice from the bed. Mrs Lawford stooped. ‘Arthur!’ she cried faintly, ‘Arthur!’ Lawford raised himself on his elbow with a sigh that was very near to being a sob. ‘Oh, Sheila, if you’d only be your real self! What is the use of all this pretence? Just consider _my_ position a little. The fear and horror are not all on your side. You called me Arthur even then. I’d willingly do anything you wish to save you pain; you know that. Can’t we be friends even in this—this ghastly—Won’t you, Sheila?’ Mrs Lawford drew back, struggling with a doubtful heart. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘it would be better not to discuss that now.’ The rest of the morning Lawford remained in solitude. CHAPTER SIX There were three books in the room—Jeremy Taylor’s ‘Holy Living and Dying,’ a volume of the Quiver, and a little gilded book on wildflowers. He read in vain. He lay and listened to the uproar of his thoughts on which an occasional sound—the droning of a fly, the cry of a milkman, the noise of a passing van—obtruded from the workaday world. The pale gold sunlight edged softly over the bed. He ate up everything on his tray. He even, on the shoals of nightmare, dreamed awhile. But by and by as the hours wheeled slowly on he grew less calm, less strenuously resolved on lying there inactive. Every sparrow that twittered cried reveille through his brain. He longed with an ardour strange to his temperament to be up and doing.