That was the warm old jacket on the second hall peg that she always slipped on, to sit outside with him for his smoke, the big poppy trimmed hat beside it, still kept the shape of her head in its crown. He could not get away from it all. His eyes too refused to give up the picture of her they had seen to-night, the tender innocent face, the pure eyes, the trembling lips. Half-past ten brought the very end of his endurance, his bitterness and his unbelief. It had taken all these six days for his brain to grow clear and healthy again; with the lifting of the strange cloud came the sudden horror of the thing he had done, a shame at the shame he had heaped on her. He found responsibilities that were his, he remembered the tenderness and watchfulness and love which her eighteen years demanded, he saw with lightning clearness that it had been sheer insanity that had distorted a simple friendship and shamed them both. He took up his hat to go out again. He would go and beseech her forgiveness though he told himself of course, she could not possibly give it. Still he would entreat her. Then the strange wheel began again in his head, and as he walked a new hot swinging sensation there, made him almost unconscious of what was going on for minutes together. He took off his hat and went on blindly, there were two shrinking figures in the shadow by the fence but he did not heed them. He knew quite well now what was going to happen to him, he was getting that same brain fever again, he had had two years ago; it accounted for everything. He found a strange comfort in the knowledge. He was going to Dot--by the time he got to the lights and voices of the house he knew his senses would have gone and his illness come upon him, his danger would touch her little tender heart and she would forgive. He even saw a vision of his convalescence and white beautiful days beyond. Then he came to the lights and people of the house, and before the little mother could speak a word, the danger came upon him and the need of forgiveness. CHAPTER XV SULLIVAN WOOSTER, GENTLEMAN 'Feel where my life broke off from thine How fresh the splinters keep, and fine, Only a touch and we combine.' Dot felt the emptiness of her arms. Then she remembered the bitterness and horror of her humiliation. To nearly all human beings there come during the course of life some moments of complete madness and irresponsibility--Dot's came upon her now. She was on her knees by the window; sometimes she beat her head against the wood-work--wild tears were coursing down her cheeks, sobs of impotent anger choked her. Wooster came up the staircase alone, the little mother had sent him to say good-bye, and to tell Dot she could not leave the sick woman for an hour. The sitting room door was open. 'Great heavens!' he said, and sprang to her side in alarm, 'you are ill--God!--what is the matter with you?'