“Shall I lift her back?” “No, leave her a few minutes.” He had the sense to add, “The morphia doesn’t usually act so quickly.” Stevens had seen him give her morphia before in the same way, with the same preliminaries. He had saved her, he must save himself. He was conscious now of nothing but gladness. He had feared his strength, but his strength had been equal to her need. She was out of pain. Nothing else mattered. She was out of pain, he had promised her and been equal to his promise. He was no Gabriel Stanton to argue and deny, deny and argue. He wiped his needle carefully, put it away. Then a cry from Stevens roused him, brought him quickly to her side. “She’s gone. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! She’s gone!” He lifted her up, laid her on the sofa, the smile was still on her face, she looked asleep. But Stevens was there and he had to dissimulate. “She is unconscious. Get on to the telephone. Ask Dr. Lansdowne to come over.” Then he made a feint of trying remedies. Strychnine, more amyl, more brandy, artificial respiration. He was glad, glad, glad, exulting as the moments went on. He thanked God that she was at rest. “_He giveth His beloved sleep._” He called her beloved, whispered it in her ear when Stevens was summoning that useless help. He had sealed her to him, she was his woman now, and for ever. No self-righteous iceberg could hold and deny her. “Sleep well, beloved,” he whispered. “Sleep well. Smile on me, smile your thanks.” He recovered himself with an immense, an incredible effort. He wanted to laugh, to exult, to call on the world to see his work, what he had done for her, how peaceful she was, and happy. He was as near madness as a sane man could be, but by the time his partner came he composed his face and spoke with professional gravity: “I am afraid you are too late.” Dr. Lansdowne, hurrying in, wore his habitual grin. “I always knew it would end like this. Didn’t I tell you so? An aneurism. I diagnosed it a long time ago.” He had even forgotten his diagnosis. “I suppose you’ve tried ... so and so?” He recapitulated the remedies. Stevens, stunned by the calamity, but not so far as to make her forget to pull down the blinds, listened and realised Dr. Kennedy had left nothing undone. “I suppose there will have to be an inquest?” “An inquest! My dear fellow. _An inquest!_ What for? I have seen her and diagnosed, prognosed. You have attended her for weeks under my direction. Unless her family wish it, it is quite unnecessary. I shall be most pleased to give a death certificate. You have informed the relatives, of course?” “Not yet.” Stevens emitted one dry sob which represented her entire emotional capacity, and hastened to ring up Queen Anne’s Gate. Dr. Lansdowne began to talk directly she left them alone. He told his silent colleague of an eructation that troubled him after meals, and of a faint tendency to gout. Then cast a perfunctory glance at the sofa. “Pretty woman!” he said. “All that money, too!”