Wayward was staring at him almost insolently; Portlaw, comfortably affected, shook his head in profound sympathy, glancing sideways at the door where his butler always announced dinner.  Constance had heard, but she looked only at young Mrs. Malcourt.  Shiela alone had been unconscious of the voice of her lord and master.

She looked bravely back into the golden-brown eyes of Miss Palliser; and, suddenly realising that, somehow, this woman knew the truth, flinched pitifully.

But Constance crushed the slender, colourless hands in her own, speaking tremulously low: 

“Perhaps he’ll have a chance now.  I am so thankful that you’ve come.”

“Yes.”  Her ashy lips formed the word, but there was no utterance.

Dinner was announced with a decorous modulation befitting the circumstances.

Malcourt bore himself faultlessly during the trying function; Wayward was moody; his cynical glance through his gold-rimmed glasses resting now on Malcourt, now on Shiela.  The latter ate nothing, which grieved Portlaw beyond measure, for the salad was ambrosial and the capon was truly Louis XI.

Later the men played Preference, having nothing else to do after the ladies left, Constance insisting on taking Shiela back to her own house, and Malcourt acquiescing in the best of taste.

The stars were out; a warm, sweet, dry wind had set in from the south-west.

“It was what we’ve prayed for,” breathed Constance, pausing on the lawn.  “It was what the doctors wanted for him.  How deliciously warm it is!  Oh, I hope it will help him!”

“Is that his cottage?” whispered Shiela.

“Yes....  His room is there where the windows are open....  They keep them open, you know....  Do you want to go in?”

“Oh, may I see him!”

“No, dear....  Only I often sit in the corridor outside....  But perhaps you could not endure it—­”

“Endure what?”

“To hear—­to listen—­to his—­breathing—­”

“Let me go with you!” she whispered, clasping her hands, “let me go with you, Miss Palliser.  I will be very quiet, I will do whatever you tell me—­only let me go with you!”

Miss Clay, just released from duty, met them at the door.

“There is nothing to say,” she said; “of course every hour he holds out is an hour gained.  The weather is more favourable.  Miss Race will show you the chart.”

As Shiela entered the house the ominous sounds from above struck her like a blow; she caught her breath and stood perfectly still, one hand pressing her breast.

“That is not as bad as it has been,” whispered Constance, and noiselessly mounted the stairs.

Shiela crept after her and halted as though paralysed when the elder woman pointed at a door which hung just ajar.  Inside the door stood a screen and a shaded electric jet.  A woman’s shadow moved across the wall within.