“I think I’ll die pretty quick. I’d rather. There’s lots of mistakes I’ve made; some of them lie on me pretty heavy at times, but I’ve come short of blasphemy. I haven’t called what I wanted ‘the will of God.’ But what’s going to pull you through when you come to the other side, Hermione, I don’t know. You’ve lied to yourself so thick and bad, there isn’t anything in you that ain’t what you don’t expect; and you’ve deceived a crowd of people! Your wits helped you, and your looks; and all the people who depended on you, or ought to have depended on you, you’ve let down. “Well, I’m your father. Seeing what you are don’t let me out of that. But I’ve told you the truth, and it don’t let you out either. “If you want to try to get the better of me now—start trying. I don’t say you won’t be able to do a cruel bit of harm before I down you, but I guess I’m going to down you, if that Viennese doctor was worth what I gave him to stiffen me up.” Mr. Brett rose wearily, as he spoke, and wandered to the south window; from it he could see Elise and John upon the lawn. John was reading out loud to her. John read out loud with great monotony, but no elocution could have sounded more impressive to Elise. “I don’t know, Hermione,” said Mr. Brett unexpectedly, “that the person I’m not sorriest for after all, isn’t yourself.” Hermione made no answer to this statement. She lay as still as a statue with her face turned to the wall. Mr. Brett saw that the sun was in her eyes and he pulled the blind down gently to shield her face before he left the room. CHAPTER VIII Mr. Brett was suddenly aroused from his sleep by the sight of John in a green dressing gown standing at the foot of his bed. John had switched the light on and there was no more colour in his face than on a blank sheet of paper. “Hermione’s ill,” he said urgently. “I hate to disturb you, but she’s most awfully ill; we’ve got a doctor, he’s with her now. Can’t you hear her screaming?” Mr. Brett listened. Mambles was a solid, deep-built house and his rooms were on the opposite wing to his daughter’s, but he could distinctly hear a high travelling sound like the shriek of wind in a broken chimney. “Well, she ain’t dying from lung complaint,” said Mr. Brett after a pause. He made no effort to get up, he merely eyed John with sardonic thoughtfulness over the bedclothes. “What do you want me to do about it?” he asked. “The doctor thought I ought to tell you,” said John a little reproachfully. “Nothing seems able to soothe her. Every now and then she screams for you. It’s awful to see her, her eyes are nearly starting out of her head. She never stops screaming.” “I’ll have to see the doctor before I get up,” said Mr. Brett consideringly. “What’s been done to soothe her anyway?” John hesitated. “The doctor gave her a powerful sedative,” he explained, “and of course we kept saying everything we thought could help. I promised to get rid of Bodger.”