She leaned heavily on his arm and even loitered on the way, but her steps grew lighter as they approached her own apartment.  Finally, as they reached the corridor, she broke away from him and tripped on with the gaiety almost of a child to the door of her room.  Then came a little cry of disappointment as she flung open the door.  Several maids were there, busy with a refractory fire and removing the covers from the furniture, but the room was half full of smoke and entirely unprepared.

“Oh, how miserable!” she exclaimed.  “Everard, what shall I do?”

He threw open the door of his own apartment.  A bright fire was burning in the grate, the room was warm and comfortable.  She threw herself with a little cry of delight into the huge Chesterfield drawn up to the edge of the hearthrug.

“I can stay here, Everard, can’t I, until you come up to bed?” she pleaded.  “And then you can sit and talk to me, and tell me who is here and all about the people.  You have no idea how much better I am.  All my music has come back to me, and they say that I play bridge ever so well.  I shall love to help you entertain.”

The maid was slowly unfastening her mistress’s boots.  Rosamund held up her foot for him to feel.

“See how cold I am!” she complained.  “Please rub it.  I am going to have some supper up here with nurse.  Will one of you maids please go down and see about it?  What a lot of nice new things you have, Everard!” she added, looking around.  “And that picture of me from the drawing-room, on the table!” she cried, her eyes suddenly soft with joy.  “You dear thing!  What made you bring that up?”

“I wanted to have it here,” he told her.

“I’m not so nice as that now,” she sighed, a little wistfully.

“Do not believe it,” he answered.  “You have not changed in the least.  You will be better-looking still when you have been here for a few months.”

She looked at him almost shyly—­tenderly, yet still with that gleam of aloofness in her eyes.

“I think,” she murmured, “I shall be just what you want me to be.  I think you could make me just what you want.  Be very kind to me, please,” she begged, stretching her arms out to him.  “I suppose it is because I have been ill so long, but I feel so helpless, and I love your strength and I want you to take care of me.  Your own hands are quite cold,” she added anxiously.  “You look pale, too.  You’re not ill, Everard?”

“I am very well,” he assured her, struggling to keep his voice steady.  “Forgive me now, won’t you, if I hurry away.  There are guests here—­rather important guests.  To-morrow you must come and see them all.”

“And help you?”

“And help me.”

Dominey made his escape and went reeling down the corridor.  At the top of the great quadrangular landing he stopped and stood with half-closed eyes for several moments.  From downstairs he could hear the sound of pleasantly raised voices, the music of a piano in the distance, the click of billiard balls.  He waited until he had regained his self-possession.  Then, as he was on the point of descending, he saw Seaman mounting the stairs.  At a gesture he waited for him, waited until he came, and, taking him by the arm, led him to a great settee in a dark corner.  Seaman had lost his usual blitheness.  The good-humoured smile played no longer about his lips.