in when his heart beat, and the fact that
his fingers were icy cold, he did not realise that he was anxious about
anything. Within his mind he seemed to feel nothing about Rachel or
about any one or anything in the world. He went on giving orders,
arranging with Mrs. Chailey, writing out lists, and every now and then
he went upstairs and put something quietly on the table outside Rachel's
door. That night Dr. Lesage seemed to be less sulky than usual. He
stayed voluntarily for a few moments, and, addressing St. John and
Terence equally, as if he did not remember which of them was engaged to
the young lady, said, "I consider that her condition to-night is very
grave."

Neither of them went to bed or suggested that the other should go to
bed. They sat in the drawing-room playing picquet with the door open.
St. John made up a bed upon the sofa, and when it was ready insisted
that Terence should lie upon it. They began to quarrel as to who should
lie on the sofa and who should lie upon a couple of chairs covered with
rugs. St. John forced Terence at last to lie down upon the sofa.

"Don't be a fool, Terence," he said. "You'll only get ill if you don't
sleep."

"Old fellow," he began, as Terence still refused, and stopped abruptly,
fearing sentimentality; he found that he was on the verge of tears.

He began to say what he had long been wanting to say, that he was sorry
for Terence, that he cared for him, that he cared for Rachel. Did she
know how much he cared for her--had she said anything, asked perhaps? He
was very anxious to say this, but he refrained, thinking that it was a
selfish question after all, and what was the use of bothering Terence to
talk about such things? He was already half asleep. But St. John could
not sleep at once. If only, he thought to himself, as he lay in the
darkness, something would happen--if only this strain would come to an
end. He did not mind what happened, so long as the succession of these
hard and dreary days was broken; he did not mind if she died. He felt
himself disloyal in not minding it, but it seemed to him that he had no
feelings left.

All night long there was no call or movement, except the opening and
shutting of the bedroom door once. By degrees the light returned into
the untidy room. At six the servants began to move; at seven they crept
downstairs into the kitchen; and half an hour later the day began again.

Nevertheless it was not the same as the days that had gone