Except for the hours which he spent in his office, he hardly left her side for a minute day or night, and the strain of the close watching, the sleepless responsibility, had produced in him that quivering sensitiveness which made his self-control a bodily as well as a mental effort.  Yet through it all he had never relaxed in the fervour of his compassion—­had never paused even to question if the battle were not useless—­if Connie herself were worth the sacrifice—­until, almost to his surprise, there had come at last a result which, in the beginning, he had neither expected nor desired.  A closer reconciliation with life, a stronger indifference to the mere outward show of possession, a deeper consciousness of the reality that lay beyond, above and beneath the manifold illusions—­these things had become a part of his mental attitude; and with this widening vision he had felt the flow in himself of that vast, universal pity which has in it more than the sweetness, and something of the anguish of mortal love.  In looking at Connie he saw not her alone, but all humanity—­saw the little griefs and the little joys of living creatures as they were reflected in the mirror of her small bared soul.  Though he had schooled himself for sacrifice he found presently that he had entertained unawares the angel of peace—­for it was during these terrible weeks that the happiness at which Gerty Bridewell had wondered possessed his heart.

On the afternoon of Trent’s visit, Adams left his office a little earlier than usual, for he had promised Connie that he would take her to see a new ballet at her favourite music hall.  When he reached his house she was already dressed, and while he changed his clothes in his dressing-room, she fluttered restlessly about the upper floor, looking remarkably fresh and pretty in a gown of delicate blossom pink.  From a little distance the faint discolour of her skin, the withered lines about her mouth and temples were lost in a general impression of rosy fairness; and as he watched her hurried movements, through the door of her bedroom, Adams found it almost impossible to associate this sparkling beauty with the half-frenzied creature he had nursed two weeks ago.  One of her “spells of joy,” as she called them was evidently upon her; and even as he accepted thankfully the startling change in her appearance, there shot into his mind an acute suspicion as to the immediate cause.

“Connie,” he said, standing in front of her with his hair brush in his hand, “will you give me your word of honour that you have taken nothing to-day except your proper medicine?”

A quick resentment showed in her eyes, but she veiled it a moment afterward by a cunning expression of injured innocence.  “Why, how could I?” she asked, in a hurt voice, “the nurse was with me.”

It was true, he knew—­the nurse had been with her all day, and yet as he looked more closely at her animated face and brilliant eyes the suspicion hardened to absolute conviction in his mind.  The change from the fragile weakness of the morning to this palpitating eagerness could mean only the one thing, he knew—­Connie had found some secret way to gratify her craving and the inevitable reaction would set in before many hours.