Byron twisted his hat in his hands. In the meticulously clean room he showed clumsy, weather-browned and out of place. "She wasn’t like herself all day, yesterday," he volunteered after a pause, during which Dr. Derek, waiting and knowing he must wait, had occupied himself with a retrospect. No woman could survive such injuries. If it had been one leg or if the head had not been hurt! Her partial recovery had been the effort of a healthy organism, a fine effort but foredoomed. The event had justified his prognosis. "She went to bed early," continued Byron, dragging out his words as if they were creatures with a will opposed to his, "she thought if she did she might be better by the mornin’." "Did she take her food?" "She was eatin’ like a ’adger last night. I couldn’t ’elp noticing it. I thought ’twas a poor sign." "What did she have for supper?" Byron recalled, not the articles of food but, the look of the table. "Well, I believe as she ’ad a piece of cold pork." "Ah!" said the doctor and, behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of the investigator who has run a fact to earth. "And I said she was to be careful about her food. If you remember I recommended a light diet?" Byron, without understanding it, had noted the satisfaction. "Iss, doctor, but ’er mind was runnin’ on pork." He did not know what a light diet was nor that fat pork, when indulged in freely and late at night, was unwholesome. "A hearty meal," mused the doctor, "and a heart suffering from overstrain. Well—what happened?" "Since ’er accident, she’ve been sleepin’ downstairs and I never ’eard nothin’ of ’er till Mrs. Rosevear come over early this mornin’ and found ’er dead in bed." He shook his head. "It frightened all the lot of us." The doctor, turning to a brass dish, picked up an agate penholder. "Very sad, Byron, very sad; but I’m afraid only what was to be expected." It was the countryman’s turn to experience surprise. The doctor had taken Sabina’s death as a matter of course. Very satisfactory, but on what grounds? "You don’t say so, sir," he began cautiously. "I’d no idea!" "If people in a weak state of health will eat pork late at night, in other words give their stomach more work than it is capable of doing," explained Dr. Derek and, behind his twinkling spectacles, his cold and keen eyes emitted a friendly gleam, "the heart is apt to stop work. It’s not a bad death, Byron. She didn’t suffer." "I’m pretty and thankful to hear that, sir. We was rather afraid, poor sawl, there by ’erself, might ’av ’ad a ’ard death." "You can put that fear out of your mind. In all probability she passed in her sleep, just—" he snapped his fingers—"snuffed out. Now, let’s see, do you want me to come over?"