‘If he dies,’ she thought, ’I shall hate God for His cruelty.  I have had six weeks with George; some people have sixty years.’  She fixed her eyes on his face, short and broad, with bumps of “observation” on the brows.  He had been sunburnt.  The dark lashes of his closed eyes lay on deathly yellow cheeks; his thick hair grew rather low on his broad forehead.  The lips were just open and showed strong white teeth.  He had a little clipped moustache, and hair had grown on his clean-cut jaw.  His pyjama jacket had fallen open.  Gratian drew it close.  It was curiously still, for a London day, though the window was wide open.  Anything to break this heavy stupor, which was not only George’s, but her own, and the very world’s!  The cruelty of it—­when she might be going to lose him for ever, in a few hours or days!  She thought of their last parting.  It had not been very loving, had come too soon after one of those arguments they were inclined to have, in which they could not as yet disagree with suavity.  George had said there was no future life for the individual; she had maintained there was.  They had grown hot and impatient.  Even in the cab on the way to his train they had pursued the wretched discussion, and the last kiss had been from lips on lips yet warm from disagreement.

Ever since, as if in compunction, she had been wavering towards his point of view; and now, when he was perhaps to solve the problem—­find out for certain—­she had come to feel that if he died, she would never see him after.  It was cruel that such a blight should have come on her belief at this, of all moments.

She laid her hand on his.  It was warm, felt strong, although so motionless and helpless.  George was so vigorous, so alive, and strong-willed; it seemed impossible that life might be going to play him false.  She recalled the unflinching look of his steel-bright eyes, his deep, queerly vibrating voice, which had no trace of self-consciousness or pretence.  She slipped her hand on to his heart, and began very slowly, gently rubbing it.  He, as doctor, and she, as nurse, had both seen so much of death these last two years!  Yet it seemed suddenly as if she had never seen death, and that the young faces she had seen, empty and white, in the hospital wards, had just been a show.  Death would appear to her for the first time, if this face which she loved were to be drained for ever of light and colour and movement and meaning.

A humblebee from the Square Garden boomed in and buzzed idly round the room.  She caught her breath in a little sob....

2

Pierson received that telegram at midday, returning from a lonely walk after his talk with Thirza.  Coming from Gratian so self-reliant—­it meant the worst.  He prepared at once to catch the next train.  Noel was out, no one knew where:  so with a sick feeling he wrote:  “Dearest child,

“I am going up to Gratian; poor George is desperately ill.  If it goes badly you should be with your sister.  I will wire to-morrow morning early.  I leave you in your aunt’s hands, my dear.  Be reasonable and patient.  God bless you.