e are
strangers. I shall come into the room no more than necessity dictates.
On Friday we resume our real parts. My husband--Arthur--to--to connive
at... Phh!'

Rage had transfigured her. She scarcely heard her own words. They poured
out senselessly, monotonously, one calling up another, as if from the
lips of a Cassandra. Lawford sank back into bed, clutching the sheets
with both lean hands. He took a deep breath and shut his mouth.

'It reminds me, Sheila,' he began arduously, 'of our first quarrel
before we were married, the evening after your aunt Rose died at
Llandudno--do you remember? You threw open the window, and I think--I
saved your life.' A pause followed. Then a queer, almost inarticulate
voice added, 'At least, I am afraid so.'

A cold and awful quietness fell on Sheila's heart. She stared fixedly
at the tuft of dark hair, the only visible sign of her husband, on the
pillow. Then, taking up the basin of cold cornflour, she left the room.
In a quarter of an hour she reappeared carrying a tray, with ham and
eggs and coffee and honey invitingly displayed. She laid it down.

'There is only one other question,' she said, with perfect
composure--'that of money. Your signature as it appears on the--the
document drawn up this morning, would, of course, be quite useless on
a cheque. I have taken all the money I could find; it is in safety.
You may, however, conceivably be in need of some yourself; here is five
pounds. I have my own cheque-book, and shall therefore have no need
to consider the question again for--for the present. So far as you are
concerned, I shall be guided solely by Mr Bethany. He will, I do not
doubt, take full responsibility.'

'And may the Lord have mercy on my soul!' uttered a stifled, unfamiliar
voice from the bed. Mrs Lawford stooped. 'Arthur!' she cried faintly,
'Arthur!'

Lawford raised himself on his elbow with a sigh that was very near to
being a sob. 'Oh, Sheila, if you'd only be your real self! What is the
use of all this pretence? Just consider MY position a little. The fear
and horror are not all on your side. You called me Arthur even then. I'd
willingly do anything you wish to save you pain; you know that. Can't we
be friends even in this--this ghastly--Won't you, Sheila?'

Mrs Lawford drew back, struggling with a doubtful heart.

'I think,' she said, `it would be better not to discuss that now.'

The rest of the morning Lawford remained in solitude.

CHAPTER SIX