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anxious work for you. You realize, of course—”
    “Of course,” she said. “That’s why I had to come.” She spoke impersonally, as if her choice had not been exercised.
    “I hope you get proper rest,” said Kit a little abruptly. “Where do you … how do you manage about waking up?”
    “I sleep in the old drawing room, on the other side of the hall.” She added, like an afterthought, “There’s a bell fixed up from her room to mine. The end’s fixed to her bed.”
    “Well, that sounds effective. … Don’t you find it rather eerie? It’s a very large room.” Once or twice, on early visits, he had been put to wait there.
    “No. I like it.” Her face lightened with one of its sudden simplicities of enjoyment. “I can have the big doors open straight on to the garden.”
    Kit had been brought up by a careful mother and wife. He started to say, “But some one might get in,” and stopped in the middle. He began to talk quickly and clearly, addressing himself chiefly to the stag’s head on the wall behind her left shoulder. “It’s a responsibility that should really be taken by a trained nurse. You mustn’t think I don’t fully appreciate that. But there were objections, as you know, and it was difficult to insist. One has to avoid any possibility of shock, or of inducing symptoms. You see, the heart is to a great extent under nervous control, and if the patient is led to anticipate—”
    “Yes,” she said. “I see.”
    Kit’s eyes returned to hers, which were smiling. He had not known till then that he was blushing, transparently, as fair people do, to the roots of his hair. It had been a trouble to him at school, but it was ten years since he had grown out of it. Her small, unconscious smile, revealing it to him, made him feel suddenly and blazingly angry; with his own sensations, the night, the house; with Miss Heath; with her.
    “I’ll look in some time to-morrow,” he said, “if I can manage it. I shall be busy. Send for me if you think it necessary. Good night.”
    He heard her answer and thank him as he swung through the outer door to his car.
    The drive, planned for the sweep of broughams and victorias, embraced three sides of the house with its curve. As he rounded the apex of the bend Kit turned his head: a glimmering space of lawn, pale with dew and the long straight strands of low-lying mist, ended in the deep windows of the drawing room and the blank gap of its open doors. In a top-floor room a thin wedge of light divided the edges of the curtains; Pedlow, he supposed, performing whatever her preparations for bed might be. Poor old Pedlow, he thought; she’d have a fit if she knew those doors were left open all night. There was a jar as one of his front wheels mounted the turf beside the drive. Kit swore, and returned his eye to the road.
    He put the car away, and crossed the garden to the house. It still wanted an hour to daybreak, but the darkness had the unreal, transitory feel of morning. A light wind was coming up; blown wet leaves struck his face, and the hidden spaces were full of the whisper and soft impact of their fall.
    He crossed the landing quietly; but just as he reached his room he heard the click of a switch, and saw the line of light show sharply under Janet’s door. He stood still for a moment with his hand on the knob of his own. As he passed on he reflected suddenly that only a few months, perhaps weeks, ago, if this had happened, he would have stood irresolute on the landing, wondering if he might knock at her door, whether she would be pleased to see him or would make him feel that his coming had been an intrusion. He knew how glad he was that it had all ended. Never again, he thought.
    It surprised him to find his bed scarcely cold; he seemed separated from the moment of waking by many hours. He thrust his head down into the pillow to shut out the noise of the wind; it was rising and beginning to whine among the chimney-stacks. She won’t be able to