The lights were coming out one after another in the town beneath, and it was very peaceful and cool in the garden, so that he stepped out on to the terrace.  As he stood there in the darkness, able only to see the shapes of trees through the fine grey light, he was overcome by a desire to escape, to have done with this suffering, to forget that Rachel was ill.  He allowed himself to lapse into forgetfulness of everything.  As if a wind that had been raging incessantly suddenly fell asleep, the fret and strain and anxiety which had been pressing on him passed away.  He seemed to stand in an unvexed space of air, on a little island by himself; he was free and immune from pain.  It did not matter whether Rachel was well or ill; it did not matter whether they were apart or together; nothing mattered—­nothing mattered.  The waves beat on the shore far away, and the soft wind passed through the branches of the trees, seeming to encircle him with peace and security, with dark and nothingness.  Surely the world of strife and fret and anxiety was not the real world, but this was the real world, the world that lay beneath the superficial world, so that, whatever happened, one was secure.  The quiet and peace seemed to lap his body in a fine cool sheet, soothing every nerve; his mind seemed once more to expand, and become natural.

But when he had stood thus for a time a noise in the house roused him; he turned instinctively and went into the drawing-room.  The sight of the lamp-lit room brought back so abruptly all that he had forgotten that he stood for a moment unable to move.  He remembered everything, the hour, the minute even, what point they had reached, and what was to come.  He cursed himself for making believe for a minute that things were different from what they are.  The night was now harder to face than ever.

Unable to stay in the empty drawing-room, he wandered out and sat on the stairs half-way up to Rachel’s room.  He longed for some one to talk to, but Hirst was asleep, and Ridley was asleep; there was no sound in Rachel’s room.  The only sound in the house was the sound of Chailey moving in the kitchen.  At last there was a rustling on the stairs overhead, and Nurse McInnis came down fastening the links in her cuffs, in preparation for the night’s watch.  Terence rose and stopped her.  He had scarcely spoken to her, but it was possible that she might confirm him in the belief which still persisted in his own mind that Rachel was not seriously ill.  He told her in a whisper that Dr. Lesage had been and what he had said.

“Now, Nurse,” he whispered, “please tell me your opinion.  Do you consider that she is very seriously ill?  Is she in any danger?”

“The doctor has said—­” she began.

“Yes, but I want your opinion.  You have had experience of many cases like this?”

“I could not tell you more than Dr. Lesage, Mr. Hewet,” she replied cautiously, as though her words might be used against her.  “The case is serious, but you may feel quite certain that we are doing all we can for Miss Vinrace.”  She spoke with some professional self-approbation.  But she realised perhaps that she did not satisfy the young man, who still blocked her way, for she shifted her feet slightly upon the stair and looked out of the window where they could see the moon over the sea.