“You mean you might sell the property to him?”

“Well, if the thing comes off.  There would be a big commission if we did.”  He glanced down on her half ironically.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She answered with a shade of reproach:  “Why do you say that?  I haven’t complained.”

“Oh, no; but I know I’ve been a disappointment as a money-maker.”

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as if in utter weariness and indifference, and in a moment she felt him bending over her.  “What’s the matter?  Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m a little tired.  It’s nothing.”  She pulled her hand away and burst into tears.

Ralph knelt down by her chair and put his arm about her.  It was the first time he had touched her since the night of the boy’s birthday, and the sense of her softness woke a momentary warmth in his veins.

“What is it, dear?  What is it?”

Without turning her head she sobbed out:  “You seem to think I’m too selfish and odious—­that I’m just pretending to be ill.”

“No, no,” he assured her, smoothing back her hair.  But she continued to sob on in a gradual crescendo of despair, till the vehemence of her weeping began to frighten him, and he drew her to her feet and tried to persuade her to let herself be led upstairs.  She yielded to his arm, sobbing in short exhausted gasps, and leaning her whole weight on him as he guided her along the passage to her bedroom.  On the lounge to which he lowered her she lay white and still, tears trickling through her lashes and her handkerchief pressed against her lips.  He recognized the symptoms with a sinking heart:  she was on the verge of a nervous attack such as she had had in the winter, and he foresaw with dismay the disastrous train of consequences, the doctors’ and nurses’ bills, and all the attendant confusion and expense.  If only Moffatt’s project might be realized—­if for once he could feel a round sum in his pocket, and be freed from the perpetual daily strain!

The next morning Undine, though calmer, was too weak to leave her bed, and her doctor prescribed rest and absence of worry—­later, perhaps, a change of scene.  He explained to Ralph that nothing was so wearing to a high-strung nature as monotony, and that if Mrs. Marvell were contemplating a Newport season it was necessary that she should be fortified to meet it.  In such cases he often recommended a dash to Paris or London, just to tone up the nervous system.

Undine regained her strength slowly, and as the days dragged on the suggestion of the European trip recurred with increasing frequency.  But it came always from her medical adviser:  she herself had grown strangely passive and indifferent.  She continued to remain upstairs on her lounge, seeing no one but Mrs. Heeny, whose daily ministrations had once more been prescribed, and asking only that the noise of Paul’s play should be kept from her.  His scamperings overhead disturbed her sleep, and his bed was moved into the day nursery, above his father’s room.  The child’s early romping did not trouble Ralph, since he himself was always awake before daylight.  The days were not long enough to hold his cares, and they came and stood by him through the silent hours, when there was no other sound to drown their voices.