e civility to tell him that his mother is here and wishes to see
him," she wound up sullenly.

"Yes, I will tell him," said Sophy.

She went up to Cecil's room and approached the bed. He recognised her
step instantly, and said in a weak voice:

"Sophy?"

"Yes, Cecil--it's Sophy."

"Nearer...." he murmured. "Come nearer...."

She bent down to him. The close, stale after-smell of fever reeked up to
her from his unshaven face. She felt very pitiful towards him. All the
hatred had ebbed from her heart. Yet she shrank from him; he was
repellent to her. The conflict between repulsion and pity sent an inward
tremor like sickness through her.

"Sophy ... what ... what did I do ... that night?" came the dragging
voice.

Her hand clenched in the folds of her gown. He had taken the other and
was fumbling it in his nerveless fingers.

"You were very excited. We'll talk of that later--when you're stronger."

"No ... now ... now. It hurts my head ... trying to work the damned
thing out! Was I ... did I...?"

"You were angry. You said unkind things to me. But that's over. Don't
torment yourself."

He was silent. He seemed dozing. Then he roused again.

"It's a hellish ... shame!..." he murmured, in that spent voice. The
violent words contrasted painfully with the weak tones.

"What is?" she said, humouring him.

"Your having ... a chap like me ... for a husband."

"You're ill, Cecil. Don't worry. Try to sleep again. But wait a
minute--your mother is here. Would you like to see her?"

"Damnation--no!" he said. Then he seemed to think better of it.
"Well--since the old lady's lowered her crest enough to come--send her
up," he muttered. "Don't let her talk, though--will you?"

"I'll tell her that you can't bear any talking."

She moved towards the door.

"Sophy...."

"Yes?"

"Could you kiss a chap?"

She went back and kissed his forehead.

"Sophy...." he said again weakly. Then he turned his face into the
pillow. She heard smothered sobs. This was dreadful. She knelt down by
him and put her arm across his heaving shoulders.

"Don't ... don't...!" she pleaded. "Oh, Cecil ... don't! It will all
come right. I'm here. I'll stand by you."

His weak fingers fumbled again and found her own.

"I'm all right," he muttered. "Just a bit weak. Go send the mater up....
Don't let her jaw, though."

Lady Wychcote came down from her son's room looking encouraged and
triumphant.

"He seems perfectly rational," she