I’ll do whatever you tell me, I’ll do whatever you tell me. But he divined her misery. The brave words trembled. She lay before him, white, inaccessible, afraid. Exquisite, made for delight with every grace that the brave lust of man has dreamed; and weariness, anxiety, some strange disease of the spirit, frustrated it. Their love too was a guest of honour, a god to be turned away. She lay there, her sweet body the very sign and symbol of their need, and he knew nothing but pity, as for a wounded child. In that strange moment his poor courage was worthy of hers. God pity me for a fool, he thought. But I love her best of all because I shall never have her. “I’m going to tell you the truth,” he began---- A jarring crash shook the house, followed by a child’s scream. He rose heavily to his feet, tightened and nauseated with terror. He knew exactly what must have happened. The railing on the sleeping porch, which he had forgotten to mend. One of the children had got out of bed, stumbled against it, the rotten posts had given way. If she had fallen from that height ... he pictured a broken white figure on the gravel. This was his punishment for selfishness and folly. Oh, it is always the innocent who suffer. With heaviness in his feet he hurried through the dining room and veranda. All was still: looking up he could see the balcony unaltered. Then, through the open windows above he heard the unmistakable clang of metal on a wooden floor. Ben’s bed. Unable to shake off his conviction of disaster he ran upstairs. Phyllis was crouching in the passage, comforting Janet. “I had a bad dream,” the child sobbed, “then there was that awful noise.” “There, there, darling, you’re all right now. We all have dreams sometimes. You can come into bed with Mother.” There was the bleat of one of the talking dolls. “_Maaa-Maa!_” it cried, and Sylvia appeared, sleepily stolid. “Is it to-morrow?” she asked. “I thought the porch had broken down,” said Phyllis hysterically. “George, did you fix that railing?” “Nonsense. The porch is all right. Get back to sleep, little toads.” “What was it, Ben’s bed?” “Ben’s! No such luck, it’s mine,” said Ruth, opening the door. “Where does the light turn on? I can’t find the button.” She saw George and gave a squeak of dismay. She needn’t be so damned skittish, he thought angrily. Nightgowns don’t seem to be any novelty in this house. “Phyl, you take Janet into bed, I’ll put Sylvia on the window seat. Keep them off that porch till I’ve mended the railing in the morning.” Ben was grumbling over the wreckage. “George, what’s the secret of this thing? Lend a hand.” “I’m frightfully sorry,” said George. “I ought to have warned you. Here, I can fix it, there’s a bit of clothesline----” “For Heaven’s sake, don’t start tinkering now,” said Ruth, who had dived into the other bed. “I’m all right here, and Ben can sleep on the mattress.” * * * * *