She lit the cigarette with fingers unwontedly trembling, and feverishly drew in the first few puffs. “Well? What are you going to do?” Quixtus breathed hard, with parted lips, and stared at the future. It is difficult, after a nightmare madness, to adjust the mind to the sane outlook. But she had moved him to the depths—the depths that through all his madness had remained untroubled. “You are right, Clementina,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I will share with you this great responsibility.” She blew out a puff of smoke; “I don’t think it ought to turn our hair white, anyhow,” she said, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “The child’s past teething, so we shan’t have to sit up at nights over ‘Advice to Mothers,’ and our common sense will tell us not to fill her up every day with pâté de foie gras. When she’s ill we’ll send for a doctor, and when we want to do business we’ll send for a lawyer. It strikes me, Ephraim, that having another interest in life besides dead men’s jawbones, will do you a thundering lot of good.” “Would you like something to do me good?” he asked, with a touch of wistful banter. Clementina, as she afterwards confessed, felt herself to be on such a sky-high plane of self-abnegation and altruism, that she thrust down, figuratively speaking; angelic arms towards him. Really, the mothering instinct again clamoured. She threw her half-smoked cigarette away and came and, standing over him; clutched his shoulder. “My good Ephraim,” she said, “I would give anything to see you a happy human being.” Then, in her abrupt fashion, she sent him out to take the air. That also would do him good. She thrust his hat and stick in his hand. “What are you going to do, Clementina?” he asked. “A thousand things. First I must go upstairs and see whether the child’s awake. I hate trusting her with that heathen imbecile.” “Au revoir, then,” said Quixtus, moving away. “Come back in good time to make the child’s acquaintance,” she shouted after him. He paused on the threshold and looked at her irresolutely. He had a nervous dread of meeting the child. He walked through the sun-filled streets, down the Cannebière, absently watched the baking quays, and then, returning to the main thoroughfare, sat down beneath the awning of a café. An hour passed. It was time to go back and see his ward. He shrank morbidly from the ordeal. With a great effort he rose at last and walked to the hotel. Clementina, Poynter, and the child were in the vestibule, the two elders seated in the wickerwork chairs; the little one squatting on the ground at their feet and playing with the mongrel and somewhat supercilious dog of the hotel. Quixtus halted in front of the group. The child lifted her flower-like face to the new-comer. “Is this——” he began. “This is Sheila,” said Clementina. “Get up, dear, and say how d’ye do to your new uncle.” She held out her hand with shy politeness—he looked so long and gaunt, and towered over her tiny self.