Towards the end of the second day he was able to get up; Dawney found him sitting on the bed in shirt and trousers.

“My son,” he said, “you had better tell me what the trouble is—­it will do your stubborn carcase good.”

“I must go back to work,” said Harz.

“Work!” said Dawney deliberately:  “you couldn’t, if you tried.”

“I must.”

“My dear fellow, you couldn’t tell one colour from another.”

“I must be doing something; I can’t sit here and think.”

Dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat:  “You won’t see the sun for three days yet, if I can help it.”

Harz got up.

“I’m going to my studio to-morrow,” he said.  “I promise not to go out.  I must be where I can see my work.  If I can’t paint, I can draw; I can feel my brushes, move my things about.  I shall go mad if I do nothing.”

Dawney took his arm, and walked him up and down.

“I’ll let you go,” he said, “but give me a chance!  It’s as much to me to put you straight as it is to you to paint a decent picture.  Now go to bed; I’ll have a carriage for you to-morrow morning.”

Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor.  The sight of him, so desperate and miserable, hurt the young doctor.

“Can you get to bed by yourself?” he asked at last.

Harz nodded.

“Then, good-night, old chap!” and Dawney left the room.

He took his hat and turned towards the Villa.  Between the poplars he stopped to think.  The farther trees were fret-worked black against the lingering gold of the sunset; a huge moth, attracted by the tip of his cigar, came fluttering in his face.  The music of a concertina rose and fell, like the sighing of some disillusioned spirit.  Dawney stood for several minutes staring at the house.

He was shown to Mrs. Decie’s room.  She was holding a magazine before her eyes, and received him with as much relief as philosophy permitted.

“You are the very person I wanted to see,” she said.

He noticed that the magazine she held was uncut.

“You are a young man,” pursued Mrs. Decie, “but as my doctor I have a right to your discretion.”

Dawney smiled; the features of his broad, clean-shaven face looked ridiculously small on such occasions, but his eyes retained their air of calculation.

“That is so,” he answered.

“It is about this unfortunate affair.  I understand that Mr. Harz is with you.  I want you to use your influence to dissuade him from attempting to see my niece.”

“Influence!” said Dawney; “you know Harz!”

Mrs. Decie’s voice hardened.