olt.'

'Well, Mrs Holt, I'm afraid your husband is in a serious condition. Of
course I don't say that with careful feeding, tonics, we can't get him
round, but it'll be a long business, and . . . and . . . you see . . .
How long have you been married?'

'Over a year,' said Victoria with an effort.

'Ah. Well Mrs Holt, it will be part of the cure that you leave him for
six months.'

Victoria gasped. Why? Why? Could it be . . .? The thought appalled her.
Dimly she could hear the doctor talking.

'His mother . . . if he has one . . . to-day . . . phosphate of . . .'

Then the doctor was gone. A telegram had somehow been sent to Rawsley
Cement Works. Then the long day, food produced on the initiative of the
hotel servants, the room growing darker, night.

It was ten o'clock, and two women stood face to face by the bed. One was
Victoria, beautiful like a marble statue, with raven black hair, pale
lips. The other a short stout figure with tight hair, a black bonnet, a
red face stained with tears.

'You've killed him,' said the harsh voice.

Victoria looked up at Mrs Holt.

'No, no.'

'My boy, my poor boy!' Mrs Holt was on her knees by the side of the
motionless figure.

Victoria began to weep, silently at first, then noisily. Mrs Holt
started at the sound, then jumped to her feet with a cry of rage.

'Stop that crying,' she commanded. 'How dare you? How dare you?'

Victoria went on crying, the sobs choking her.

'A murderess,' Mrs Holt went on. 'You took my boy away; you corrupted
him, ruined him, killed him. You're a vile thing; nobody should touch
you, you. . . .'

Victoria pulled herself together.

'It's not my fault,' she stumbled. 'I didn't know.'

'Didn't know,' sneered Mrs Holt, 'as if a woman of your class didn't
know.'

'That's enough,' snarled Victoria. 'I've had enough. Understand? I
didn't want your son. He wanted me. That's all over. He bought me, and
now you think the price too heavy. I've been heaven to him who only knew
misery. He's not to be pitied, unless it be because his mistress hands
him over to his mother.'

'How dare you?' cried Mrs Holt again, a break in her voice as she pitied
her outraged motherhood.

'It's you who've killed him; you, the family, Rawsley, Bethlehem, your
moral laws, your religion. It's you who starved him, ground him down
until he lost all sense of measure, desired nothing but love and life.'

'You killed him, though,' said the mother.

'Perhaps. I did