The house was quiet. There was not a sound stirring in the still sunny road of orchards and discreet and drowsy villas. A long silence followed, immensely active and alert on the one side, almost morbidly lethargic so far as the stooping figure in front of the looking-glass was concerned. At last the last haunting question came in a kind of croak, as if only by a supreme effort could it be compelled to produce itself for consideration. ‘And Alice, Sheila?’ ‘Alice, dear, of course goes with _me_.’ ‘You realise,’ he stirred uneasily, ‘you realise it may be final.’ ‘My dear Arthur,’ cried Sheila, ‘it is surely, apart from mere delicacy, a parental obligation to screen the poor child from the shock. Could she be at such a time in any better keeping than her mother’s? At present she only vaguely guesses. To know definitely that her father, infinitely worse than death, had—had—Oh, is it possible to realise anything in this awful cloud? It would kill her outright.’ Lawford made no stir. The quietest of raps came at the door. ‘The money from the Bank, ma’am,’ said a faint voice. Sheila carefully opened the door a few inches. She laid the blue envelope on the dressing-table at her husband’s elbow. ‘You had better perhaps count it,’ she said in a low voice—‘forty in notes, the rest in gold,’ and narrowed her eyes beneath her veil upon her husband’s very peculiar method of forgetting his responsibilities. ‘French?’ she said with a nod. ‘How very quaint.’ Lawford’s eyes fell and rested gravely on the dingy page of Herbert’s mean-looking bundle of print. A queer feeling of cold crept over him. ‘Yes,’ he said vaguely, ‘French,’ and hopelessly failed to fill in the silence that seemed like some rather sleek nocturnal creature quietly waiting to be fed. Sheila swept softly towards the door. ‘Well, Arthur, I think that is all. The servants will have gone by this evening. I have ordered a carriage for half-past twelve. Perhaps you would first write down anything that occurs to you to be necessary? Perhaps, too, it would be better if Dr Simon were told that we shall not need him any more, that you are thinking of a complete change of scene, a voyage. He is obviously useless. Besides, Mr Bethany, I think, is going to discuss a specialist with you. I have written him a little note, just briefly explaining. Shall I write to Dr Simon too?’ ‘You remember everything,’ said Lawford, and it seemed to him it was a remark he had heard ages and ages ago. ‘It’s only this money, Sheila; will you please take that away?’ ‘Take it away?’ ‘I think, Sheila, if I do take a voyage I should almost prefer to work my passage. As for a mere “change of scene,” that’s quite uncostly.’ ‘It is only your face, Arthur,’ said Sheila solemnly, ‘that suggest these wicked stabs. Some day you will perhaps repent of every one.’