ael thought that once she had smiled at him. But at present she had
spoken no word. All the morning Lord Ashbridge had waited there too, but
since there was no change he had gone away, saying that he would return
again later, and asking to be telephoned for if his wife regained
consciousness. So, but for the nurse and the occasional visits of the
doctor, Michael was alone with his mother.

In this long period of inactive waiting, when there was nothing to be
done, Michael did not seem to himself to be feeling very vividly, and
but for one desire, namely, that before the end his mother would come
back to him, even if only for a moment, his mind felt drugged and
stupefied. Sometimes for a little it would sluggishly turn over thoughts
about his father, wondering with a sort of blunt, remote contempt how it
was possible for him not to be here too; but, except for the one great
longing that his mother should cleave to him once more in conscious
mind, he observed rather than felt. The thought of Sylvia even was dim.
He knew that she was somewhere in the world, but she had become for the
present like some picture painted in his mind, without reality. Dim,
too, was the tension of those last days. Somewhere in Europe was a
country called Germany, where was his best friend, drilling in the ranks
to which he had returned, or perhaps already on his way to bloodier
battlefields than the world had ever dreamed of; and somewhere set in
the seas was Germany's arch-foe, who already stood in her path with open
cannon mouths pointing. But all this had no real connection with him.
From the moment when he had come into this quiet, orderly room and saw
his mother lying on the bed, nothing beyond those four walls really
concerned him.

But though the emotional side of his mind lay drugged and insensitive
to anything outside, he found himself observing the details of the room
where he waited with a curious vividness. There was a big window opening
down to the ground in the manner of a door on to the garden outside,
where a smooth lawn, set with croquet hoops and edged with bright
flower-beds, dozed in the haze of the August heat. Beyond was a row
of tall elms, against which a copper beech glowed metallically, and
somewhere out of sight a mowing-machine was being used, for Michael
heard the click of its cropping journey, growing fainter as it receded,
followed by the pause as it turned, and its gradual crescendo as it
approached again. Otherwi