orst of policies.

Persistently, in the silence of the hot room, there rang through his
brain the questions: "Do I really care whether she stays or goes?--do I
love her?--shall I ever marry her?" Questions that were immediately
answered, it seemed, by the rise of a wave of desolate and desperate
feeling. He was maimed and ruined; life had broken under his feet. What
if also he were done forever with love and marriage?

There were still some traces in his veins of the sedative drug which had
given him a few hours' sleep during the night. Under its influence a
feverish dreaminess overtook him, alive with fancies and images. Ferrier
and Diana were among the phantoms that peopled the room. He saw Ferrier
come in, stoop over the newspaper on the floor, raise it, and walk
toward the fire with it. The figure stood with its back to him; then
suddenly it turned, and Marsham saw the well-known face, intent, kindly,
a little frowning, as though in thought, but showing no consciousness of
his, Oliver's, presence or plight. He himself wished to speak, but was
only aware of useless effort and some intangible hinderance. Then
Ferrier moved on toward a writing-table with drawers that stood beyond
the fireplace. He stooped, and touched a handle. "No!" cried Oliver,
violently--"no!" He woke with shock and distress, his pulse racing. But
the feverish state began again, and dreams with it--of the House of
Commons, the election, the faces in the Hartingfield crowd. Diana was
among the crowd--looking on--vaguely beautiful and remote. Yet as he
perceived her a rush of cool air struck on his temples, he seemed to be
walking down a garden, there was a scent of limes and roses.

"Oliver!" said his mother's voice beside him--"dear Oliver!"

He roused himself to find Lady Lucy bending over him. The pale dismay in
her face excited and irritated him.

He turned away from her.

"Is Nixon come?"

"Dearest, he has just arrived. Will you see him at once?"

"Of course!" he said, angrily. "Why doesn't Richard do as he's told?"

He raised himself into a sitting posture, while Lady Lucy went to the
door. The local doctor entered--a stranger behind him. Lady Lucy left
her son and the great surgeon together.

* * * * *

Nearly an hour later, Mr. Nixon, waylaid by Lady Lucy, was doing his
best to compromise, as doctors must, between consideration for the
mother and truth as to the Son. There was, he hoped, no irrepara