He was still rough with her at moments of intense mental pressure—­somehow; realised it—­made efforts toward self-command—­toward reason again, mental control; sometimes felt that he was on the way to acquiring mental mastery.

But traces of injury to the mind still remained—­sensitive places—­and there were swift seconds of agony—­of blind anger, of crafty, unbalanced watching to do harm.  Yet for all that he knew he was convalescent—­that alcohol was no longer a necessity to him; that whatever he did had now become a choice for him; that he had the power and the authority and the will, and was capable, once more, of choosing between depravity and decency.  But what had been taken out of his life seemed to leave a dreadful silence in his brain.  And, at moments, this silence became dissonant with the clamour of unreason.

On one of his worst days when his crippled soul was loneliest the icy seas became terrific.  Cruisers and destroyers of the escort remained invisible, and none of the convoyed transports were to be seen.  The watery, lowering daylight faded:  the unseen sun set:  the brief day ended.  And the wind went down with the sun.  But through the thick darkness the turbulent wind appeared to grow luminous with tossing wraiths; and all the world seemed to dissolve into a nebulous, hell-driven thing, unreal, dreadful, unendurable!

“Mr. McKay!”

He had already got into his wool dressing-robe and felt shoes, and he sat now very still on the edge of his berth, listening stealthily with the cunning of distorted purpose.

Her tiny room was just across the corridor.  She seemed to be eternally sleepless, always on the alert night and day, ready to interfere with him.

Finally he ventured to rise and move cautiously to his door, and he made not the slightest sound in opening it, but her door opened instantly, and she stood there confronting him, an ulster buttoned over her nightdress.

“What is the matter?” she said gently.

“Nothing.”

“Are you having a bad night?”

“I’m all right.  I wish you wouldn’t constitute yourself my nurse, servant, mentor, guardian, keeper, and personal factotum!” Sudden rage left him inarticulate, and he shot an ugly look at her.  “Can’t you let me alone?” he snarled.

“You poor boy,” she said under her breath.

“Don’t talk like that!  Damnation!  I—­I can’t stand much more—­I can’t stand it, I tell you!”

“Yes, you can, and you will.  And I don’t mind what you say to me.”  His malignant expression altered.

“Do you know,” he said, in a cool and evil voice, “that I may stop saying things and take to doing them?”

“Would you hurt me physically?  Are you really as sick as that?”

“Not yet....  How do I know?” Suddenly he felt tired and leaned against the doorway, covering his dulling eyes with his right forearm.  But his hand was now clenched convulsively.