r in bed appeared of gigantic size, and
came down upon her like the ceiling falling. But for long spaces of time
she would merely lie conscious of her body floating on the top of the
bed and her mind driven to some remote corner of her body, or escaped
and gone flitting round the room. All sights were something of an
effort, but the sight of Terence was the greatest effort, because he
forced her to join mind to body in the desire to remember something. She
did not wish to remember; it troubled her when people tried to disturb
her loneliness; she wished to be alone. She wished for nothing else in
the world.

Although she had cried, Terence observed Helen's greater hopefulness
with something like triumph; in the argument between them she had made
the first sign of admitting herself in the wrong. He waited for Dr.
Lesage to come down that afternoon with considerable anxiety, but with
the same certainty at the back of his mind that he would in time force
them all to admit that they were in the wrong.

As usual, Dr. Lesage was sulky in his manner and very short in his
answers. To Terence's demand, "She seems to be better?" he replied,
looking at him in an odd way, "She has a chance of life."

The door shut and Terence walked across to the window. He leant his
forehead against the pane.

"Rachel," he repeated to himself. "She has a chance of life. Rachel."

How could they say these things of Rachel? Had any one yesterday
seriously believed that Rachel was dying? They had been engaged for four
weeks. A fortnight ago she had been perfectly well. What could fourteen
days have done to bring her from that state to this? To realise what
they meant by saying that she had a chance of life was beyond him,
knowing as he did that they were engaged. He turned, still enveloped in
the same dreary mist, and walked towards the door. Suddenly he saw it
all. He saw the room and the garden, and the trees moving in the air,
they could go on without her; she could die. For the first time since
she fell ill he remembered exactly what she looked like and the way in
which they cared for each other. The immense happiness of feeling her
close to him mingled with a more intense anxiety than he had felt yet.
He could not let her die; he could not live without her. But after a
momentary struggle, the curtain fell again, and he saw nothing and felt
nothing clearly. It was all going on--going on still, in the same way as
before. Save for a physical pa