‘Send that girl out of the flat this moment!’ May said.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

’Make the beef-tea in case it’s wanted, and let me have some more warm water.  There’s John and the doctor!’

She started at a knock.

‘No, it’s only the postman, ma’am.’

Some letters danced on the hall floor and on her nerves.

‘Oh dear!’ May whispered.  ‘I thought it was the doctor at last.’

‘John’s bound to be back with one in a minute, ma’am.  Do bear up,’ urged the cook, hurrying to the kitchen.

She could have destroyed the woman for those last words.

With the proud certainty of being equal to the dreadful crisis, she turned abruptly into the bedroom, where her husband lay insensible on one of the new beds.  Assisted by the policemen and the cook, she had done everything that could be done:  cut away the coats and the waistcoat, removed the boots, straightened the limbs, washed the face and neck—­especially the neck—­which had to be sponged continually, and scattered messengers, including John, over the vicinity in search of medical aid.  And now the policemen had gone, the general emotion on the staircase had subsided, the front-door of the flat was shut.  The great ocean of the life of the mansions had closed smoothly upon her little episode.  She was alone with the shattered organism.

She bent fondly over the bed, and her Paris frock, and the black scarf which she had not removed, touched its ruinous burden.  Her right hand directed the sponge with ineffable tenderness, and then the long thin fingers tightened to a frenzied clutch to squeeze it over the basin.  The whole of her being was absorbed in a deep passion of pity and an intolerable hunger for the doctor.

Through the wall came once more the faint sound of the Hungarian Rhapsody, astonishingly rapid and brilliant.  She set her teeth to endure its unconscious message of the vast indifference of life to death.

The organism stirred, and May watched the deathly face for a sign.  The eyes opened and stared at her in agonized bewilderment.  The lips tried to speak, and failed.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said softly.  ’You’re in your own bed.  The doctor will be here directly.  Drink this.’

She gave him some brandy-and-water, and they looked at each other.  He was no longer Edward Norris, the finely regulated intelligence, the masterful volition, the conqueror of the world and of a woman; but merely the embodiment of a frightened, despairing, flickering, hysterical will-to-live, which glanced in terror at the corners of the room as though it saw fate there.  And beneath her intense solicitude was the instinctive feeling, which hurt her, but which she could not dismiss, of her measureless, dominating superiority.  With what glad relief would she have changed places with him!

‘I’m dying, May,’ he murmured at length, with a sigh.  ’Why doesn’t the doctor come?’