s ago," he murmured. "I--I hoped you would have
forgiven me."

"Well, I haven't. So please go."

Her ill-humour, accumulating ever since the receipt of the wire from the
Lenskys, seemed about to burst. She looked exceedingly angry, and the
poor wretch in the chair before her trembled as he looked at her.

"D--don't be so hard on me, Bicky."

"Don't call me Bicky. And please go. I don't want to be rude, but I
shall lose my temper if you don't."

Carron's pinched face quivered. "I--I am very ill Brigit," he said in a
hurried, deprecating way. "I--I am not sleeping at all, my nerves
are--rotten. And I thought I'd die if I couldn't see you. Don't be any
harder on me than--than necessary."

She sat down on the arm of a chair, and looked at him closely.

"You do look ill--very ill. And you look--I say, Gerald, are you taking
anything?"

He gave a shrill, cackling laugh. "Taking anything. No. You mean
morphine or something of that kind? _Pas si bete_, my dear. Oh, no, I
have always had a perfect horror of anything like that. W--why?"

"Because--I think you _are_," she returned coolly. "Show me your left
arm, Gerald."

"No, no, you are mad, my dear,--I assure you I don't. I give you my word
of honour----"

She came to him, and taking his arm in her strong hands pushed up his
sleeves and studied his emaciated arm for a few seconds in silence.

"I thought as much," she commented, as he almost whimpered in his
helpless annoyance.

"You are so rough, Brigit. Tony always says you are so rough."

"Yes, I am. Well--I am sorry for you, Gerald. When did you begin?"

"Oh--long ago. But--I seem to need more of late."

"Took it at first to make you sleep, I suppose?"

"Yes. And then--well you see, I like it. And it's nobody's business," he
finished defiantly.

"That's true. Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, yes, Brigit. You _are_ kind. It is good of you to forgive me."

"I haven't forgiven you," she retorted, going to the tea table, "but I
am sorry for you. Where have you been of late?"

"Oh, all about, as usual. I came up from Morecambe yesterday. Rotten
party. Have you seen your mother?"

Brigit's lips tightened. "No."

"I saw her three weeks ago. She is very much hurt by your behaviour."

"Broken-hearted, I should think!"

"Well, she's queer enough, I grant you, and not over-motherly, but--she
_is_ your mother when all's said and done."

The girl watched the kettle boil and said nothing.

"Tommy is comin