Peter, suddenly, inexplicably unable to stand, sank on his knees by the sofa, hid his face in her dress. Dr. Lansdowne said. “God bless my soul!” Peter broke into tears like a girl. “Come, come, this will never do. Pull yourself together, or I shall think.... I shan’t know what to think....” Peter recovered himself as quickly as he had collapsed, rose to his feet. “It was so sudden,” he said apologetically. “I was unprepared....” “I could have told you exactly what would happen. The case could hardly have ended any other way.” He said a few kind words about himself and his skill as a diagnostician. Peter listened meekly, and was rewarded by the offer of a lift home. “You can come up again later, when the family has arrived, they will be sure to want to know about her last moments.... Or I might come myself, tell them I foresaw it....” CHAPTER XVI I woke up suddenly. A minute ago I had seen Peter Kennedy kneeling by the sofa, his head against Margaret’s dress. He had looked young, little more than a boy. Now he was by my side, bending over me. There was grey in his hair, lines about his face. “You’ve grown grey,” was the first thing I said, feebly enough I’ve no doubt, and he did not seem to hear me. “My arm aches. How could you do it?” “Do what?” “She was so young, so impetuous, everything might have come right....” “She is wandering,” he said. I hardly knew to whom he spoke, but felt the necessity of protest. “I’m not wandering. Is Ella there?” “Of course I am. Is there anything you want?” She came over to me. “I needn’t write any more, need I? I’m so tired.” Ella looked at him as if for instructions, or guidance, and he answered soothingly, as one speaks to a child or an invalid: “No, no, certainly not. You need not write until you feel inclined. She has been dreaming,” he explained. It did not seem worth while to contradict him again. I was not wide-awake yet, but swayed on the borderland between dreams and reality. Three people were in the dusk of the well-known room. They disentangled themselves gradually; Nurse Benham, Dr. Kennedy, Ella in the easy-chair, Margaret’s easy-chair. It was evening and I heard Dr. Kennedy say that I was better, stronger, that he did not think it necessary to give me a morphia injection. “Or hyoscine.” I am sure I said that, although no one answered me, and it was as if the words had dissolved in the twilight of the room. Incidentally I may say I never had an injection of morphia since that evening. I knew how easy it was to make a mistake with drugs. So many vials look alike in that small valise doctors carry. I was either cunning or clever that night in rejecting it. Afterwards it was only necessary to be courageous.