So time and life stole back on him, and his thoughts laboured weakly with dim fears.  Slowly he cleared a way through them, adjusted himself to his strange state, and found out that he was in his own room, in his grandfather’s house, that alternating with the white-capped faces about him were those of his mother and sister, and that in a few days—­if he took his beef-tea and didn’t fret—­Paul would be brought up from Long Island, whither, on account of the great heat, he had been carried off by Clare Van Degen.

No one named Undine to him, and he did not speak of her.  But one day, as he lay in bed in the summer twilight, he had a vision of a moment, a long way behind him—­at the beginning of his illness, it must have been—­when he had called out for her in his anguish, and some one had said:  “She’s coming:  she’ll be here next week.”

Could it be that next week was not yet here?  He supposed that illness robbed one of all sense of time, and he lay still, as if in ambush, watching his scattered memories come out one by one and join themselves together.  If he watched long enough he was sure he should recognize one that fitted into his picture of the day when he had asked for Undine.  And at length a face came out of the twilight:  a freckled face, benevolently bent over him under a starched cap.  He had not seen the face for a long time, but suddenly it took shape and fitted itself into the picture...

Laura Fairford sat near by, a book on her knee.  At the sound of his voice she looked up.

“What was the name of the first nurse?”

“The first—?”

“The one that went away.”

“Oh—­Miss Hicks, you mean?”

“How long is it since she went?”

“It must be three weeks.  She had another case.”

He thought this over carefully; then he spoke again.  “Call Undine.”

She made no answer, and he repeated irritably:  “Why don’t you call her? 
I want to speak to her.”

Mrs. Fairford laid down her book and came to him.

“She’s not here—­just now.”

He dealt with this also, laboriously.  “You mean she’s out—­she’s not in the house?”

“I mean she hasn’t come yet.”

As she spoke Ralph felt a sudden strength and hardness in his brain and body.  Everything in him became as clear as noon.

“But it was before Miss Hicks left that you told me you’d sent for her, and that she’d be here the following week.  And you say Miss Hicks has been gone three weeks.”

This was what he had worked out in his head, and what he meant to say to his sister; but something seemed to snap shut in his throat, and he closed his eyes without speaking.

Even when Mr. Spragg came to see him he said nothing.  They talked about his illness, about the hot weather, about the rumours that Harmon B. Driscoll was again threatened with indictment; and then Mr. Spragg pulled himself out of his chair and said:  “I presume you’ll call round at the office before you leave the city.”