Portlaw and Wayward sat most of the time in the big living-room playing “Canfield.”  There was nothing else to do except to linger somewhere within call, and wait.  Constance Palliser remained near whichever nurse happened to be off duty, and close enough to the sick-room to shudder at what she heard from within, all day, all night, ceaselessly ominous, pitiable, heart-breaking.

At length Wayward took her away without ceremony into the open air.

“Look here, Constance, your sitting there and hearing such things isn’t helping Garry.  Lansdale is doing everything that can be done; Miss Race and Miss Clay are competent.  You’re simply frightening yourself sick—­”

She protested, but he put her into a hooded ulster, buckled on her feet a pair of heavy carriage boots, and drew her arm under his, saying:  “If there’s a chance Garry is having it, and you’ve got to keep your strength....  I wish this mist would clear; Hooper telephoned to Pride’s for the weather bulletin, but it is not encouraging.”

They walked about for an hour and finally returned from the wet woodland paths to the bridge, leaning on the stone parapet together.

A swollen brook roared under the arches, carrying on its amber wave-crests tufts of green grass and young leaves and buds which the promise of summer had tenderly unfolded to the mercy of a ruthless flood.

“Like those young lives that go out too early,” murmured Constance.  “See that little wind-flower, Jim, uprooted, drowning—­and that dead thing tumbling about half under water—­”

Wayward laid a firm hand across hers.

“I don’t mean to be morbid,” she said with a pathetic upward glance, “but, Jim, it is too awful to hear him fighting for just—­just a chance to breathe a little—­”

“I think he’s going to get well,” said Wayward.

“Jim!  Why do you think it?  Has any—­”

“No....  I just think it.”

“Is there any reason—­”

“None—­except you.”

His voice within the last month or two had almost entirely lost its indistinct and husky undertone; the clear resonant quality, which had always thrilled her a little as a young girl, seemed to be returning; and now she felt, faintly, the old response awaking within her.

“It is very sweet of you to believe he’ll live because I love him,” she said gently.

Wayward drew his hand from hers and, folding his arms, leaned on the parapet inspecting the turbid water through his spectacles.

“There are no fights too desperate to be won,” he said.  “The thing to do is to finish—­still fighting!”

“Jim?”

“Yes.”

This time her hand sought his, drew it toward her, and covered it with both of hers.

“Jim,” she said tremulously, “there is something—­I am horribly afraid—­that—­perhaps Garry is not fighting.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“There was an—­an attachment—­”