then all in a moment they change—­I think it must be like that with the heart.  I used to think I knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about; I thought self-possession and reason so easy; now I know nothing.  And nothing in the world matters but to see you and hide away from that look in Uncle Nic’s eyes.  Three months ago I did not know you, now I write like this.  Whatever I look at, I try to see as you would see; I feel, now you are away even more than when you were with me, what your thoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that.  Some things you have said seem always in my mind like lights—­”

A slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold, ceaseless hissing.  Christian shut the window, and went into her uncle’s room.

He was lying with closed eyes, growling at Dominique, who moved about noiselessly, putting the room ready for the night.  When he had finished, and with a compassionate bow had left the room, Mr. Treffry opened his eyes, and said: 

“This is beastly stuff of the doctor’s, Chris, it puts my monkey up; I can’t help swearing after I’ve taken it; it’s as beastly as a vulgar woman’s laugh, and I don’t know anything beastlier than that!”

“I have a letter from Greta, Uncle Nic; shall I read it?”

He nodded, and Christian read the letter, leaving out the mention of Harz, and for some undefined reason the part about Sarelli.

“Ay!” said Mr. Treffry with a feeble laugh, “Greta and her money!  Send her some more, Chris. Wish I were a youngster again; that’s a beast of a proverb about a dog and his day.  I’d like to go fishing again in the West Country!  A fine time we had when we were youngsters.  You don’t get such times these days.  ’Twasn’t often the fishing-smacks went out without us.  We’d watch their lights from our bedroom window; when they were swung aboard we were out and down to the quay before you could say ‘knife.’  They always waited for us; but your Uncle Dan was the favourite, he was the chap for luck.  When I get on my legs, we might go down there, you and I?  For a bit, just to see?  What d’you say, old girl?”

Their eyes met.

“I’d like to look at the smack lights going to sea on a dark night; pity you’re such a duffer in a boat—­we might go out with them.  Do you a power of good!  You’re not looking the thing, my dear.”

His voice died wistfully, and his glance, sweeping her face, rested on her hands, which held and twisted Greta’s letter.  After a minute or two of silence he boomed out again with sudden energy: 

“Your aunt’ll want to come and sit with me, after dinner; don’t let her, Chris, I can’t stand it.  Tell her I’m asleep—­the doctor’ll be here directly; ask him to make up some humbug for you—­it’s his business.”

He was seized by a violent fit of pain which seemed to stab his breath away, and when it was over signed that he would be left alone.  Christian went back to her letter in the other room, and had written these words, when the gong summoned her to dinner: