She covered her face with her hands and flung herself on the bed, sick and desperate. She could not see any one, could not speak to any one. When a knock came at her door, she thrust her fingers into her ears and lay there, with her eyes shut tight, trembling from head to foot; but the knocking went on until she could endure it no longer. “Yes?” she said, sitting up. “Supper’s all on the table!” said Mrs. Royce’s cheerful voice. “I don’t want any supper to-night, thank you,” replied Lexy. Mrs. Royce expostulated and argued for a time, but she could not persuade Lexy even to unlock the door; and at last, with a worried sigh, she went downstairs again. The room was quite dark now, and the wind blowing in through the open window felt chill; but Lexy was too tired to close the window or light the gas. She was not drowsy. She lay stretched out, limp, overpowered with fatigue, but wide awake, and with a curious certainty that she was waiting for something. There was another knock at the door, and this time Captain Grey’s voice spoke. “I say, Miss Moran!” he said anxiously. “You’re not ill, are you?” “No!” she answered, with a trace of irritability. “I’m just tired.” “But don’t you think you ought to eat something, you know? Or a cup of tea?” “No!” she cried, still more impatiently. “I can’t. I want to rest.” “Can you open the door for half a moment?” he asked. “I’ve some roses here that my sister sent to you. She wanted me to say—” The door opened with startling suddenness. Lexy appeared, and took the roses out of his hand. “Thank you! Good night!” she said, and was gone again before he quite realized what was happening. Then he heard the key turn in the lock, and, bewildered and very uneasy, he went away. Lexy flung the roses down on the table, not even troubling to put them into water. “Anything to get rid of him!” she said to herself. “I want to be let alone!” She lay down on the bed again, pulling a blanket over herself. Downstairs she could hear Mrs. Royce moving about in the kitchen, and Captain Grey’s singularly agreeable voice talking to the landlady. It seemed to her that they were in a different world, and that she was shut outside, in a black and terrible solitude. “If I can only sleep!” she thought. “Perhaps, in the morning—” She was beginning to feel a little drowsy now. How heavenly it would be to sleep, even for a little while! To sleep and to forget! The wind was blowing through the dark little room, bringing to her the perfume of the roses—a wonderful fragrance. It was wonderful, but almost too strong. It was too strong. It troubled her. “I’ll put them out on the window sill,” she murmured. “It’s such a queer scent!” But she was too tired, too unspeakably tired. She didn’t seem able to get up, or even to move. She sighed faintly, and closed her eyes. The wind blew, strong and steady, heavy with that sweet and subtle odor. * * * * *