Filled with forebodings I tried in vain to suppress I dropped the work I was doing and got up and paced the room, pausing now and again to gaze out of the window at the wet roofs and the grey skies.  I was aghast at the idea of her going to Ham now even though he were hurt badly hurt; and yet I tried to think it was natural, that it was fine of her to respond to such a call.  And she couldn’t very well refuse his summons.  But it was not the news of her husband’s accident that inspired the greater fear, which was quelled and soothed only to rise again when I recalled the note I had heard in her voice, a note eloquent of tragedy—­of tragedy she had foreseen.  At length, unable to remain where I was any longer, I descended to the street and walked uptown in the rain.  The Durrett house was closed, the blinds of its many windows drawn, but Nancy was watching for me and opened the door.  So used had I grown to seeing her in the simple linen dresses she had worn in the country, a costume associated with exclusive possession, that the sight of her travelling suit and hat renewed in me an agony of apprehension.  The unforeseen event seemed to have transformed her once more.  Her veil was drawn up, her face was pale, in her eyes were traces of tears.

“You’re going?” I asked, as I took her hands.

“Hugh, I have to go.”

She led me through the dark, shrouded drawing room into the little salon where the windows were open on the silent city-garden.  I took her in my arms; she did not resist, as I half expected, but clung to me with what seemed desperation.

“I have to go, dear—­you won’t make it too hard for me!  It’s only—­ordinary decency, and there’s no one else to go to him.”

She drew me to the sofa, her eyes beseeching me.

“Listen, dear, I want you to see it as I see it.  I know that you will, that you do.  I should never be able to forgive myself if I stayed away now, I—­neither of us could ever be happy about it.  You do see, don’t you?” she implored.

“Yes,” I admitted agitatedly.

Her grasp on my hand tightened.

“I knew you would.  But it makes me happier to hear you say it.”

We sat for a moment in helpless silence, gazing at one another.  Slowly her eyes had filled.

“Have you heard anything more?” I managed to ask.

She drew a telegram from her bag, as though the movement were a relief.

“This is from the doctor in Boston—­his name is Magruder.  They have got Ham there, it seems.  A horse kicked him in the head, after he fell,—­he had just recovered consciousness.”

I took the telegram.  The wordy seemed meaningless, all save those of the last sentence.  “The situation is serious, but by no means hopeless.”  Nancy had not spoken of that.  The ignorant cruelty of its convention!  The man must have known what Hambleton Durrett was!  Nancy read my thoughts, and took the paper from my hand.