me
dancing attendance on you. A man with a man's job to do can't have time
for the softness of women about him: he can't stop to look to right or
left! But when I'm in Harley Street--well there! No more decayed castles
or wooden huts for you!

"I'm aching to see you, Marcella. It's the Mater's birthday on Easter
Sunday, so I'm running down to see her on Saturday. I shall travel back
by that train that leaves Euston at midnight on Sunday. It's great to be
away from you, because it's so great to come back."

The doctor looked at her as he put the letter down, and blew his nose
and polished his glasses.

"Two or three years ago I'd have been sick to think I was only the
bridge to carry him over--to his job. But now--" She smiled a little,
wondering why he should talk to her of the softness of women, that he
must dispense with for a while; and Kraill had seen her hard, and asked
her to be courageous for him!

After the doctor had gone Andrew came in, warm and rosy from his bath.
He had had a glorious day on the beach with Wullie; he scrambled into
Jean's arms to be carried to bed, because they had forgotten his
slippers and his feet were cold.

"Night, night, mummy," he said. "Inve morning I shan't wake you up, 'cos
I'm going to see the boats come in at five! An' Jean's putting oatcake
in my pocket--like a man--!"

He went off, laughing. After he was in bed, she heard him singing for a
long time until his voice droned away to drowsiness.

She lay silent and motionless. Aunt Janet came in. She took up the
hypodermic syringe impassively. Marcella shook her head.

"No. I want to think to-night. Louis's coming on Monday. I've to think
of some way of not letting him know how ill I am, because of his work,"
she said. "But will you put pencil and paper where I can get it?"

"You'll not be writing letters to-night, Marcella?" said Aunt Janet.

"No. I'm going to make my will," she laughed. "I've only Louis and
Andrew to leave--"

Her aunt kissed her and turned away. Through the open window came the
soft roar of the sea. It was very still to-night; the moon shone across
it, but that she could not see: she had seen it so often that it was
there in her imagination. On Ben Grief the shadows lay inky in the
silver light. She looked at the syringe, and then at the tabloids, and
sighed a little; the pain was a thing tearing and burning; several times
she tried to begin to write and had to lie back with closed eyes
floating aw