“You look tired,” she said.  “Or are you ill?”

He stood shame-faced before her; for her eyes were more disconcerting than when they had looked down on him from their height.  They were tranquil now, full of kind thought and innocence and candour.  Of innocence above all, a luminous innocence, a piercing purity.  He was troubled by her presence; but it was not so much her womanhood that troubled him as the deep mystery of her youth.

He could not look at it as it looked at him; for in looking at it he remembered last night and many nights before.  Somehow it made him see the things it could not see, his drunkenness, his folly, his passion, the villainous naked body of his sin.  And it was for their work, and their marks upon him, that she pitied him.

“Have you had anything to eat?” said she.

“Oh, yes, thanks,” he answered vaguely.

“When?”

“Well—­as far as I can remember it was about eight o’clock last night.”

“Oh—­how very thoughtless of me.  I am so sorry.”

“It’s my own fault entirely.  I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except to account for my stupidity.”

She crossed the room with a quick movement of distress and rang the bell.  With horror he perceived her hospitable intention.

She was actually ordering his dinner and his room.  He heard every word of her soft voice; it was saying that he was to have some soup, and the chicken, and the tart—­no, the jelly, and a bottle of burgundy, in the morning-room.  He saw the young footman standing almost on tip-toe, winged for service, fired with her enthusiasm and her secrecy.

Coming on that sinister and ambiguous errand, how could he sleep under her roof?  How could he eat her chicken, and drink her burgundy, and sit in her morning-room?  And how could he explain that he could not?  Happily she left him to settle the point with the footman.

With surprise and a little concern Lucia Harden learnt that the rather extraordinary young man, Mr. Savage Keith Rickman, had betaken himself to an hotel.  It appeared, that courteously, but with an earnestness that admitted of no contradiction, he had declined all hospitality whatever.

CHAPTER XV

It was Friday morning, and Mr. Rickman lay in bed, outwardly beholding through the open window the divinity of the sea, inwardly contemplating the phantoms of the mind.  For he judged them to be phantoms (alcoholic in their origin), his scruples of last night.  Strictly speaking, it was on Wednesday night that he had got drunk; but he felt as if his intoxication had prolonged itself abnormally, as if this were the first moment of indubitable sobriety.