exhausted to the bone. I lay still and stared at him. He looked sleek and even prosperous. He looked gorged with food. His face was a little swollen. The big blue eyes were clear. He let the eyeglass fall, gazing at me, while a smile broke over his face. I was so glad to see him, so relieved to have him back, that, though no emotion beyond that of suspense ended was in me, I felt, as once before with the doctor, a lump rise in my throat. His bloated expression distressed me vaguely. At first he said nothing, but walked across the room on tiptoe, as though pretending I was asleep and he feared to wake me.
My tongue loosened suddenly. The very words I have not forgotten. A matter that had not lain in my mind for days came uppermost:
"Did you send off the overcoat to Kay?"
He nodded, but without looking at me. It was a lie, I knew. My eyes followed him round, as he began to undress. For several minutes I said nothing. Then other words came to me:
"I've been alone four days and nights."
Silence.
"Without food--or anybody."
Silence, but he turned his back to me.
"Without money."
Silence. He stood quite motionless.
"I might have died. I might have gone crazy."
Silence.
"It's been awful--the loneliness and wondering----"
He half turned, but instantly turned back again. No sound escaped him.
"I've been thinking about you--and wondering day and night. Are you really married? Pauline's been here--this afternoon."
His silence was broken by a sort of gulp, and he bent over. My mistake about the date of the woman's visit was intentional--I thought it might open his lips; I did not correct it. He half turned to look at me, but again instantly hid his face as before. Then he abruptly sat
down on the sofa, leaning against the back, his head in
