ht he was cruel; then she
realized, with a softening to pity, that he was only mad. He won back
the pity by telling her that his mouth and throat were now in an
advanced state of decomposition, having been dead many months; maggots
were crawling over them, choking him. The overwhelming beastliness of
this suggestion was almost more than she could bear until she realized
that it must be even more overwhelming for him. By chance she hit upon
the sort of treatment a doctor would most likely have given a man
suffering from alcoholic poisoning. She spoke to him quietly, as if
asking his advice, though she could scarcely control her voice.

"The best thing is to poison the maggots, don't you think, Louis?"

He looked at her craftily, his mind switching on to a less horrifying
thought.

"Ha! I knew you had poison. Where is it?"

"I gave you all the poison in that tea, dear. What is there we can use
to poison maggots? Surely they taught you that at the hospital?"

"Oh yes, yes--mix up salt and water and watch them wriggle! A quart of
water and two tons of salt. Be quick! I'll poison the devils," he cried,
and she watched in astonishment as he drank the salt water greedily. Of
course he was sick, and very much better because much less poisoned.

His delusions became less terrifying; the maggots changed to a bee
buzzing inside his ear, deafening him. She killed the bee by blowing
cigarette smoke inside his ear and telling him it was dead. When he grew
much quieter and more reasonable he asked her the time in so ordinary a
voice that she thought he must be quite well. The next minute he begged
her earnestly not to come near him again because her infidelities had
made him loathe the sight of her.

Right back of her mind was the shaking conviction that she could not
stand alone; she was longing, demanding almost, all that night, that God
should come down from on high with chariots and thunderbolts to save
her; she wanted Dr. Angus to tell her what to do, to persuade her that
Louis was a sick man and not a bad man; next minute she wanted her
father to come and thrash him to death for his wickedness. But all the
time, illogically, she pitied him while she pitied herself. By accident
he killed the self pity by transmuting it to a softer, more beautiful
thing.

"Did I tell you the Chinks had got that little Jimmy who was on the
_Oriana_?" he asked casually at tea-time next day.

"Who? What do you mean?" she said, starting.