"They thought the change of scene, the perfect quiet, and the bracing air might do wonders for you, Ronnie." "Who were 'they'?" "Dr. Dick and--a friend of his." "I see. Well, I won't bully you into telling me things you are afraid I ought not to know. But I will tell you just how much I _do_ know. It is all a queer sort of black dream. I absolutely can't remember _seeing_ anything, until I found myself watching the sparkle of the ripples on the sea. But I vaguely remember _hearing_ things. There was always a kind voice. Of course that was yours, Helen. Also there was a kind hand. I used to try not to do anything which could hurt the kind hand. Then, there were several strange voices; they came and went. Then there was Mrs. Dalmain. When her voice was there I always tried to do at once what the strange voices and the kind voice wished; because I was horribly afraid of being left alone with Mrs. Dalmain! Then I sometimes thought I heard a baby cry. Wasn't that queer?" Helen did not answer. A deep flush overspread her face, mounting from her chin to the roots of her hair. Was Ronnie going to remember? "The kind voice used to say: 'Take him away, Nurse'; but I am vague about this; because I was miles down a deep well when it happened, and the baby was up at the top. I expect I got the idea from having called my 'cello the Infant of Prague. Did you hear me playing, on that evening, Helen?" "Yes, I heard." "Was it beautiful?" "Very beautiful, Ronnie." "I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again." "By-and-by, dear." "Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?" "A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this carefully." "Is it all right?" "Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it all over, and you will tell me." His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first she had seen for so long. "I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am glad I am not altogether a rotter." After that they walked on in silence. His last remark had been so unexpected in its bitterness, that Helen could find no words in which to answer it. She glanced at her watch. It was almost time for luncheon. She pointed out their hotel.