Then suddenly he rose, and began to pace up and down the room--up and down, up and down, swinging round sharply at the corners, but always, she noticed with a gulp, treading softly for fear of waking Len. She watched him in numb despair. The minutes dragged on. Now and then he put his hand over his brow, as if he fought either for or against some memory, now and then he bent his head so low that she could not see his face. She wondered how much longer she would be able to endure it. "Nigel----" she whispered at last. He stopped and turned towards her. "Nigel ..." "What is it?" "For heaven's sake ... don't keep me in suspense." "Suspense about what?" "Your forgiveness." In a moment he was at her side. "Janey--if I thought you could be doubting that----" He put his arms round her, and the relief was so sudden that she burst into tears. "What a selfish hound I am!--wrapped up in my own beastly feelings, and forgetting yours. But I never imagined you could think----" "I thought ... perhaps you couldn't." "Janey, how dare you!" "When you got up and walked about ..." "I know--I know. But that wasn't anger against you--my poor, outraged, suffering darling," and he covered her face with kisses. She clung to him in a passion of love and relief. "Oh, you're good--you and Len!" "Nonsense, Janey. You mustn't talk like that. We're not worthy to tie your shoes--we never shall be. How could you think we'd turn against you? It's him, that little, loathly cad, that----" "Oh, hush, dear--I can't bear it." His rage was stronger and fiercer than Len's, his whole body quivered in the passion of it. Then suddenly it changed unaccountably to grief, and his head fell back against her shoulder, the eyes dull, the mouth old and drawn. She thought it was for her, and he hugged his poor, dead secret too tight to grant her the mercy of disillusion. The night wore on, and they clung together on the hearthstone, where cinders fell and glowed, making the only sound, the only light, in the room. Two lost children, they huddled together in the only warm place they had left--each other's arms. There was a feeble sigh, a feeble stirring in the bed--just as the first of the morning came between the curtains, and pointed like a finger into the gloom. "Lenny...." Janet and Nigel rose, wearily dropping their stiff arms from each other, and went over to the bed. "How long have you been awake?" "Only just woke up ... would you draw back the curtains?" Nigel pulled them back, and a white dawn shuddered into the room. "What time is it?" "About three--can't you go to sleep again?" "No--I've wakened for good ... I mean ... I mean ..." "What, old man?" "I think I am going to die after all." "No, Lenny, no...." "It's rather a come down ... after saying I wouldn't ... but I feel so tired."