he gazed at her by the flapping light of the candle, which he had set down in the draught on the bottom stair.
She had certainly not broken her neck. She looked at him with eyes that seemed not to take him in; and though not particularly large in general, they appeared so now. She pressed her side and rubbed her arm, as if conscious of pain; then stood up, averting her face, in evident distress, at his gaze.
"Thank God, you are not killed!--though it's not for want of trying—nor much hurt, I hope?"
Her fall, in fact, had not been a serious one, probably owing to the lowness of the old rooms and to the high level of the ground outside. Beyond a scraped elbow and a blow in the side, she had apparently incurred little harm.
"I was asleep, I think," she began, her pale face still turned away from him, "and something frightened me—a terrible dream—I thought I saw you—" The actual circumstances seemed to come back to her, and she was silent.
Her cloak was hanging at the back of the door, and the wretched Phillotson flung it round her. "Shall I help you up-stairs?" he asked, drearily; for the significance of all this sickened him of himself and of everything.
"No, thank you, Richard. I am very little hurt. I can walk."
"You ought to lock your door," he mechanically said, as if lecturing in school. "Then no one could intrude, even by accident.
"I have tried—it won't lock. All the doors are out of order."
The aspect of things was not improved by her admission. She ascended the staircase slowly, the waving light of the candle shining on her. Phillotson did not approach her, or attempt to ascend himself till he heard her enter her room. Then he fastened up the front door, and,
