“Have you noticed anything a little—­a little strange in your mother lately, Maud?  Anything in her way of speaking, I mean—­her general manner?”

The girl met his look, and shook her head.  The approach to such a conversation affected her as with a shock; she could not speak.

“She has very bad nights, you know,” Paul went on, still in a tone just above a whisper, “and of late she has been taking chloral.  It’s against my wish, but the relief makes it an irresistible temptation.  I fear—­I am afraid it is having some deleterious effect upon her; she seemed to be a little—­just a little delirious in the night, I thought.”

There was something horrible in his voice and face as he uttered these words; he shuddered slightly, and his tongue seemed to labour for utterance, as though he dreaded the sound of his own speech.

Maud sat unmoving and silent.

“I thought, also,” Paul went on, “that she appeared a little strange last evening, when the people were here.—­You weren’t in the drawing-room?”

Maud shook her head again.

“Do you—­do you think,” he asked, “she is having too much excitement?  I know she needs a life of constant variety; it is essential to her.  I’m sure you understand that, Maud?  You—­you don’t misjudge her?”

“No, no; it is necessary to her,” said the girl mechanically.

“But,” her father pursued, with still lower voice, “there is always the danger lest she should over-exert herself.  Last night I—­I thought I noticed—­but it was scarcely worth speaking of; I am so easily alarmed, you know.”

Maud tried to say something, but in vain.

“You—­you won’t desert her—­quite—­Maud?” said her father in a tone of pleading.  “I am obliged to be so muck away—­God knows I can’t help it.  And then I—­I wonder whether you have noticed?  I seem to have little influence with her.”

He stopped, but the next moment forced himself to utter what was in his mind.

“Can’t you help me a little more, Maud?  Couldn’t you induce her to live a little more—­more restfully at times?”

She rose, pushing the chair back behind her.

“Father, I can’t!” she cried; then burst into a passion of tears.

“God help us!” her father breathed, rising and looking at her in blank misery.  But in a moment she had recovered herself.  They faced each other for an instant, but neither ventured to speak again, and Maud turned and left him.

Waymark came as usual, but now he seldom saw Mrs. Enderby.  Maud received him alone.  There was little that was lover-like in these hours spent together.  They kissed each other at meeting and parting, but, with this exception, the manner of both was very slightly different from what it had been before their engagement.  They sat apart, and talked of art, literature, religion, seldom of each other.  It had come to this by degrees; at first there had been more warmth, but passion never.  Waymark’s self-consciousness often weighed upon his tongue, and made his conversation but a string of commonplaces; Maud was often silent for long intervals.  Their eyes never met in a steady gaze.