The quiet and emptiness of his own street restored him in some measure to his aloof scepticism.  But even then he knew there was a disruptive force secretly at work in him, tearing down stone by stone his confidence and courage.  He was afraid of shadows.  A bowed figure crouched against the railings of his house checked him as though a ghost had lain in wait for him.  He passed it hurriedly, running up the stone steps.  The sound of a thin, clear voice calling him made him turn again, his head thrown up in a sort of defiance.

“Monsieur—­excuse—­excuse—­I wait ’ere so long.  They tell me you come back ’ere perhaps.  But they don’t know I ’ave come.  I creep out——­ Monsieur she cannot sleep—­she cannot sleep.  They don’t do nothing.  It is not right.  I cannot ’ave it—­that she suffer so.”

He came back down the steps.  He was conscious of having sighed deeply.  He looked into the shrivelled, up-turned face, and saw the tears that filled the furrows with a slow moving stream.  He had hardly noticed her before.  Now she hurt him.  A very little old woman.  He said briefly, hiding a shaken voice: 

“They do all they can.  I can do no more.”

She reiterated with a peasant’s obstinacy.

“I will not ’ave it—­I will not—­not ’ave it—­I cannot bear it.”

“Dr. Rutherford is there.  I tell you he can do all that can be done.  I offered her an injection—­she would not have it.”

“She pretend—­all ze time she pretend.  Even before me, ’er mother, she pretend.  But I know.”

“Her mother!”

He stepped back against the railings, freeing himself fretfully from the hand that clutched his arm.

“If you are her mother she treats you strangely.  She treats you like a servant.”

“Before others, Monsieur.  She is different—­of different stuff.  We ’ave always understood.  If I am to be with ’er it must be as ’er servant.  That is our affair.  But you are not kind.  You let ’er suffer too much.  I will not ’ave it.”

She drew herself up.  She almost menaced him.  He saw that she knew.  As a physician he had done what lay in his power, but as a human being he had failed utterly and deliberately.  Had always failed.  And he was aware of an incredible fear of her.

“I will come now,” he stammered.

He gave her such sleep that night that it seemed unlikely that she would ever wake again.  He knew that he had exceeded the limits of mercy set down by his profession and that the nurse had looked strangely at him.  But he was indifferent.  It was as though he, too, had been momentarily released.

Nor did he leave her again until the morning, but watched over her, whilst on the other side of the bed the old woman knelt, her face pressed against a still hand, a battered, sullen effigy of grief.

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