When he returned, Pierson wrapped himself in a rug and lay down on the old sofa in his study.  The maid, coming in next morning to “do” the grate, found him still asleep.  She stood contemplating him in awe; a broad-faced, kindly, fresh-coloured girl.  He lay with his face resting on his hand, his dark, just grizzling hair unruffled, as if he had not stirred all night; his other hand clutched the rug to his chest, and his booted feet protruded beyond it.  To her young eyes he looked rather appallingly neglected.  She gazed with interest at the hollows in his cheeks, and the furrows in his brow, and the lips, dark-moustached and bearded, so tightly compressed, even in. sleep.  Being holy didn’t make a man happy, it seemed!  What fascinated her were the cindery eyelashes resting on the cheeks, the faint movement of face and body as he breathed, the gentle hiss of breath escaping through the twitching nostrils.  She moved nearer, bending down over him, with the childlike notion of counting those lashes.  Her lips parted in readiness to say:  “Oh!” if he waked.  Something in his face, and the little twitches which passed over it, made her feel “that sorry” for him.  He was a gentleman, had money, preached to her every Sunday, and was not so very old—­what more could a man want?  And yet—­he looked so tired, with those cheeks.

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.”