“A chance, yes; not much of one.”

“You say the baby must be born dead if you do?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?”

“One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.”

“She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.”

The doctor looked at him very gravely.  “It’s on your shoulders,” he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.”

Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him.

“Am I of any use up there?” he asked.

“No; keep away.”

“I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.”

The doctor nodded, and went upstairs.

Soames continued to stand, listening.  ‘By this time to-morrow,’ he thought, ‘I may have her death on my hands.’  No! it was unfair —­monstrous, to put it that way!  Sullenness dropped on him again, and he went up to the gallery.  He stood at the window.  The wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour, glowing, burnished-an early autumn.  If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk?  ’But she’d take the risk of losing me,’ he thought, ’sooner than lose her child!  She doesn’t really love me!’ What could one expect—­a girl and French?  The one thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was a child!  ‘I’ve been through a lot for this,’ he thought, ’I’ll hold on—­hold on.  There’s a chance of keeping both—­a chance!’ One kept till things were taken—­one naturally kept!  He began walking round the gallery.  He had made one purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it—­a girl with dull gold hair which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was holding in her hand.  Even at this tortured moment he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—­admire the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster.  Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer!  What use, if....!  He turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window.  Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind.  In the clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed.  They flew far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky.  Annette fed the doves; it was pretty to see her.  They took it out of her hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact.  A choking sensation came into his throat.  She would not—­could nod die!  She was too—­too sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in spite of her fair prettiness.

It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and stood listening.  Not a sound!  A milky twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below.  He had turned back when a sound caught his ear.  Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still.  What was it?  Death?  The shape of Death coming from her door?  No! only a maid without cap or apron.  She came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly: