He had a good voice, and it was often in request. Sometimes the inexplicable dread of his singing was more than she could bear; she would hurry on her walking-attire, and, stealing like a shadow down the stairs, would seek refuge in pacing about the streets of the neighbourhood, heedless of weather or the hour. Mrs. Enderby never came down to breakfast. One morning, when Paul happened to be at home, he and Maud had finished that meal in silence, and Maud was rising to leave the room, when her father checked her. He leaned over the table towards her, and spoke in an anxious undertone. "Have you noticed anything a little--a little strange in your mother lately, Maud? Anything in her way of speaking, I mean--her general manner?" The girl met his look, and shook her head. The approach to such a conversation affected her as with a shock; she could not speak. "She has very bad nights, you know," Paul went on, still in a tone just above a whisper, "and of late she has been taking chloral. It's against my wish, but the relief makes it an irresistible temptation. I fear--I am afraid it is having some deleterious effect upon her; she seemed to be a little--just a little delirious in the night, I thought." There was something horrible in his voice and face as he uttered these words; he shuddered slightly, and his tongue seemed to labour for utterance, as though he dreaded the sound of his own speech. Maud sat unmoving and silent. "I thought, also," Paul went on, "that she appeared a little strange last evening, when the people were here.--You weren't in the drawing-room?" Maud shook her head again. "Do you--do you think," he asked, "she is having too much excitement? I know she needs a life of constant variety; it is essential to her. I'm sure you understand that, Maud? You--you don't misjudge her?" "No, no; it is necessary to her," said the girl mechanically. "But," her father pursued, with still lower voice, "there is always the danger lest she should over-exert herself. Last night I--I thought I noticed--but it was scarcely worth speaking of; I am so easily alarmed, you know." Maud tried to say something, but in vain. "You--you won't desert her--quite--Maud?" said her father in a tone of pleading. "I am obliged to be so much away--God knows I can't help it. And then I--I wonder whether you have noticed? I seem to have little influence with her." He stopped, but the next moment forced himself to utter what was in his mind. "Can't you help me a little more, Maud? Couldn't you induce her to live a little more--more restfully at times?" She rose, pushing the chair back behind her. "Father, I can't!" she cried; then burst into a passion of tears. "God help us!" her father breathed, rising and looking at her in blank misery. But in a moment she had recovered herself. They faced each other for an instant, but neither ventured to speak again, and Maud turned and left him.