She pitied him; helpless and lonely he seemed to her, asleep there instead of going to bed properly.  And sighing, she tiptoed towards the door.

“Is that you, Bessie?”

The girl turned:  “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry I woke you, sir.  ’Appy New Year, sir!”

“Ah, yes.  A Happy New Year, Bessie.”

She saw his usual smile, saw it die, and a fixed look come on his face; it scared her, and she hurried away.  Pierson had remembered.  For full five minutes he lay there staring at nothing.  Then he rose, folded the rug mechanically, and looked at the clock.  Eight!  He went upstairs, knocked on Noel’s door, and entered.

The blinds were drawn up, but she was still in bed.  He stood looking down at her.  “A Happy New Year, my child!” he said; and he trembled all over, shivering visibly.  She looked so young and innocent, so round-faced and fresh, after her night’s sleep, that the thought sprang up in him again:  ‘It must have been a dream!’ She did not move, but a slow flush came up in her cheeks.  No dream—­dream!  He said tremulously:  “I can’t realise.  I—­I hoped I had heard wrong.  Didn’t I, Nollie?  Didn’t I?”

She just shook her head.

“Tell me—­everything,” he said; “for God’s sake!”

He saw her lips moving, and caught the murmur:  “There ’s nothing more.  Gratian and George know, and Leila.  It can’t be undone, Daddy.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have wanted to make sure, if you hadn’t tried to stop Cyril and me—­and I’m glad sometimes, because I shall have something of his—­” She looked up at him.  “After all, it’s the same, really; only, there’s no ring.  It’s no good talking to me now, as if I hadn’t been thinking of this for ages.  I’m used to anything you can say; I’ve said it to myself, you see.  There’s nothing but to make the best of it.”

Her hot hand came out from under the bedclothes, and clutched his very tight.  Her flush had deepened, and her eyes seemed to him to glitter.

“Oh, Daddy!  You do look tired!  Haven’t you been to bed?  Poor Daddy!”

That hot clutch, and the words:  “Poor Daddy!” brought tears into his eyes.  They rolled slowly down to his beard, and he covered his face with the other hand.  Her grip tightened convulsively; suddenly she dragged it to her lips, kissed it, and let it drop.

“Don’t!” she said, and turned away her face.

Pierson effaced his emotion, and said quite calmly: 

“Shall you wish to be at home, my dear, or to go elsewhere?”

Noel had begun to toss her head on her pillow, like a feverish child whose hair gets in its eyes and mouth.

“Oh!  I don’t know; what does it matter?”

“Kestrel; would you like to go there?  Your aunt—­I could write to her.”  Noel stared at him a moment; a struggle seemed going on within her.

“Yes,” she said, “I would.  Only, not Uncle Bob.”

“Perhaps your uncle would come up here, and keep me company.”