She believed that it must be long past midnight. It had not as a matter of fact struck twelve o'clock; and some one besides herself was awake, had not yet gone to bed. She heard him go later; heard a stumbling step going clumsily and heavily along the stoep. Through the thin walls the noise of the footsteps was distinctly audible. She lay still on her pillow and listened to them, her heart beating quickly and the pulses in her temples throbbing like tiny hammers. A sick horror gripped her. She knew, without seeing the man, who it was who thus disturbed the silence, and, with the uncertain blundering step of a man under the influence of drink, lurched heavily along the stoep to his room. He made so much noise in getting there that she felt certain all the occupants of the rooms he passed would wake and hear him. Her cheeks burned with shame for him, and her heart was filled with a great pity. What joy could he derive from this terrible misuse of life? What a waste of his manhood and of his intellect! With the cessation of the sounds a deeper hush than before seemed to settle upon the night; even the crickets became less insistent: the world slept; every one slept, save herself. She alone of all the household kept wakeful vigil until the dawn broke, and brought with its hopeful promise of a new day rest and forgetfulness to her weary brain. Esme woke late, and had barely time to dress before the gong sounded for breakfast. With a curious reluctance to meet again the man whose noisy movements had disturbed her overnight, she went into the coffee-room and seated herself at table. Hallam's seat was empty. It was still empty when she rose at the finish of breakfast and went out on to the stoep into the sunshine. She was relieved that she had been spared the ordeal of meeting him, of sitting beside him while the memory of last night was still so painfully vivid in her thoughts. Her whole being shrank from witnessing his degradation. He must feel, far more acutely than she felt for him, the embarrassment of appearing in public, of meeting the criticism in unsympathetic eyes. She played tennis during the morning, and played badly; her heart was not in the game, and the careless gaiety of her companions jarred on her sober mood. They rallied her on her preoccupation, until she pleaded a headache; when Sinclair, leaving the others to play singles, led her away to a quiet corner in the garden where she could sit and rest. He was glad to get her alone. He was leaving on the morrow, going back to his job in a stuffy office in a dull little town. "Uitenhage is about the sleepiest hole in South Africa," he grumbled. "I think it is lovely," the girl returned. "I went there once when the roses were in bloom." "Oh! it's pretty enough. And it's handy to the Bay. I shall look you up when you return--may I?" "I shall be very pleased," she answered. "But you'll have to choose a holiday. I am going back to my job too. I teach music."