feeling that curious lucid clearness of brain, almost a kind of
second-sight, sometimes produced by unwonted sleeplessness, he still
thought that people made much too much fuss about a restless night or
two.

"Suppose a fellow couldn't sleep for a time! Well, he can read, or work.
It was nothing." But, about eleven in the morning the exaltation of the
wakefulness had gone off, and he felt stupid and depressed. He suddenly
began to feel anxious about himself. Of course, it was all Sylvia! This
life, seeing her more or less all day, under the same roof, pretending
to be only friends, without any sort of vent, any expression, verbal or
otherwise, for his sentiment, was impossible! It was unbearable! He
ought to have gone to Athens.... Suddenly Sylvia came into the room. She
looked the picture of freshness and happiness. She had come to fetch a
book, she said. But she lingered a moment, to ask Woodville if he liked
her new dress. It was a Paris marvel of simplicity in pale grey, and
neither disguised nor over-emphasised the lines of her exquisite figure.

"Yes, I think it's all right," said Woodville.

"_All right!_" she exclaimed indignantly. "Don't you _see_ how it fits?
Why, it's simply wonderful! How heartless you are!" There was just a
tinge of coquetry in her manner, which was rather unwonted. "You're not
looking very well to-day," she said, looking sympathetically at him.

"I'm very well. I'm always all right."

"Are you angry with me, Frank? What's the matter? What's that you're
reading?" She snatched the book of poems away from him, read the poem
and blushed with pleasure.

"Yes! You see that's what I'm reduced to!" he said.

"Frank, I don't think you go out enough. Look, what a lovely day it is!"

"Where do you propose I should go? To the theatre to-night? I hate
theatres." He spoke irritably.

"No," she said in a low, soft voice; "let's break the compact, just for
once--_just for once!_" She was instinctively taking advantage of a kind
of weakness he showed this morning for the first time--due to his
nervous fatigue--the weariness of long self-repression.

"Certainly not!" he answered, with no conviction whatever. "Whose
birthday is it? It isn't Christmas Day--it isn't Midsummer Day. No! I
don't see any excuse for doing it."

"Yes, there's a reason! It will be Sexagesima Sunday next week!"

"So it will!"

"Ah, you admit that! Well, let's go and have lunch at Richmond--or
somewhere like that!"