Because there was nothing else to do, she got into bed, and lay there staring at the electric light, which she had forgotten to put out. Toward seven she got up and gave orders that Mr. Farron was not to be disturbed, that the house was to be kept quiet. Strange, she thought, that he could sleep like an exhausted child, while she, awake, was a mass of pain. Her heart ached, her eyes burned, her very body felt sore. She arranged for his sleep, but she wanted him to wake up; she begrudged every moment of his absence. Alas! she thought, how long would she continue to do so? Yet with her suffering came a wonderful ease, an ability to deal with the details of life. When at eight o’clock her maid came in and, pulling the curtains, exclaimed with Gallic candor, “Oh, comme madame a mauvaise mine ce matin!” she smiled at her with unusual gentleness. Later, when Mathilde came down at her accustomed hour, and lying across the foot of her mother’s bed, began to read her scraps of the morning paper, Adelaide felt a rush of tenderness for the child, who was so unaware of the hideous bargain life really was. Surprising as it was, she found she could talk more easily than usual and with a more undivided attention, though everything they said was trivial enough. Then suddenly her heart stood still, for the door opened, and Vincent, in his dressing-gown, came in. He had evidently had his bath, for his hair was wet and shiny. Thank God! he showed no signs of defeat! “Oh,” cried Mathilde, jumping up, “I thought Mr. Farron had gone down-town ages ago.” “He overslept,” said Adelaide. “I had an excellent night,” he answered, and she knew he looked at her to discover that she had not. “I’ll go,” said Mathilde; but with unusual sharpness they both turned to her and said simultaneously, “No, no; stay.” They knew no better than she did why they were so eager to keep her. “Are you going down-town, Vin?” Adelaide asked, and her voice shook a little on the question; she was so eager that he should not institute any change in his routine so soon. “Of course,” he answered. They looked at each other, yet their look said nothing in particular. Presently he said: “I wonder if I might have breakfast in here. I’ll go and shave if you’ll order it; and don’t let Mathilde go. I have something to say to her.” When he was gone, Mathilde went and stood at the window, looking out, and tying knots in the window-shade’s cord. It was a trick Adelaide had always objected to, and she was quite surprised to hear herself saying now, just as usual: “Mathilde, don’t tie knots in that cord.” Mathilde threw it from her as one whose mind was engaged on higher things.