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examining his white, well-cared-for hands. Then he opened the door, and slowly ascended the stairs. He did not see Arthur, whose upturned anxious face made a tremulous white moon in the semi-darkness of the hall. He entered his wife’s room.
    “Harriet!”
    “Yes, Richard!”
    She was sitting up in bed with three pillows behind and a bed rest in front, crocheting. She had three pillows because someone had said three pillows were best. And she crocheted because young Dr. Lewis, her newest doctor, had prescribed it for her nerves. But now she paused, her eyes raised to his. Her eyes had thick black eyebrows above and very brown skin underneath, the pigmented skin of the complete neurotic. She smiled, rather apologetically, and touched her glossy hair, which lay undone, framing her sallow face.
    “You don’t mind, Richard? I had one of my bad headaches. I had to make Caroline give my scalp a little brush this afternoon.” And she smiled again—her suffering invalid smile, the sad smile of the invalid, a confirmed invalid. She suffered from her back, her stomach, her nerves. From time to time she had the most prostrating headaches for which toilet vinegar was useless, for which everything was useless but Caroline’s gentle brushing of her head. On these occasions Aunt Carrie would stand for an hour on end gently, soothingly brushing Harriet’s head with long slow strokes. No one had been able to get to the root of Harriet’s trouble. Not really. She had exhausted Drs. Riddel, Scott and Proctor, the doctors of Sleescale; she had seen half the specialists in Tynecastle, she had turned in despair to a nature healer, a homeopathist, a herbalist, an electrical physicist who swathed her in the most marvellous magnetic belts. Each of the quacks had started by being wonderful,
the man
at last
, as Harriet said; and each had sadly proved himself—like Riddel, Scott, Proctor and the Tynecastle specialists—to be a fool. Not that Harriet despaired. She had her own case in hand, she read persistently, perseveringly, patiently, a great many books upon the subject of her own complaints. Useless, alas! All, all useless. It was not that Harriet did not try. She had tried every medicine under the sun, her room was surrounded by bottles, dozens of bottles, tonics, sedatives, liniments, alleviatives, antispasmodics, everything—all the physic that had been prescribed for her in the past five years. It could at least be said of Harriet that she never threw a bottle away. Some of the bottles had only one dose out of them—Harriet had such experience that after even one spoonful she could say: “Put it away. I
know
it’ll do me no good.” The bottle was put on the shelf.
    It was terrible. But Harriet was very patient. She was confined to bed. Yet she ate very well. At times, indeed, she ate magnificently, that was part of her trouble, her stomach it must be, she had such gas. She was amiable, though, she had never been known to disagree with her husband, but was always docile, yielding, sympathetic. She shirked none of the more intimate wifely duties. She was there: in bed. She had a big white body, and an air of sanctity. She conveyed the strange impression of being like a cow. But she was very pious. Perhaps she was a sacred cow.
    Barras looked at her as from a long way off. How exactly did he regard her? At the moment it was impossible to say.
    “Is your headache better now?”
    “Yes, Richard, it is a little better. Not gone, but a little better. After Caroline had done brushing my hair I made her pour me a little of that valerian mixture young Dr. Lewis gave me. I think it helped.”
    “I meant to bring you some grapes from Tynecastle but I forgot.”
    “Thank you, Richard.” Amazing how often Richard forgot those grapes; but the intention was there. “You went to Todd’s, of course.”
    His expression stiffened ever so slightly. Arthur, still busy with his enigma, should have seen that look.
    “Yes, I went there. They are