Those early years of yours made you morbid. You've got a temper and one or two other things that want a lot of holding down and that takes up your attention--And then Clare isn't the woman to help you--"

Peter was about to break in but she went on:--'"Oh! I know my Clare through and through. She's just as anxious as you are not to be hurt by anything and so she's being hurt all the time. She's out for happiness at any cost and you're out for freedom--freedom from every kind of thing--and because both of you are denied it you are restive. But you and Clare are both people whose only salvation is in being hurt and knocked about and bruised to such an extent that they simply don't know where they are. Oh! I know--I'm exactly the same sort of person myself.

We can thank the Gods if we are knocked about--"

Suddenly she paused and, falling back in her chair, put her hand to her breast, coughing. Something seized her, held her in its grip, tossed her from side to side, at last left her white, speechless, utterly exhausted. It had come so suddenly that it had taken Peter entirely by surprise. She lay back now, her eyes closed, her face a grey white.

He ran to the door and called Mrs. Brockett. She came and with an exclamation hurried away for remedies.

Peter suddenly felt his hand seized--a hoarse whisper was in his ear--"Peter--dear--go--at--once--I can't bear--you--to see me--like this. Come back--another day."

He knelt, moved by an affection and tenderness that seemed stronger than any emotion he had ever known, and kissed her. She whispered:

"Dear boy--"

On his way back to Chelsea, the orange lamps, the white streets powdered with the evening glow, the rustling plane trees whispered to him, "You've got to be knocked about--you've got to be knocked about--you've got to be knocked about--" but the murmur was no longer sinister.

Still thinking of Norah, he went up to the nursery to see the boy in bed. He remembered that Clare was going out alone to a party and that he would have the evening to himself.

On entering the room, dark except for a nightlight by the boy's bed, some unknown fear assailed him. He was instantly, at the threshold, conscious of it. He stood for a moment in silence. Then realised what it was. The boy was moaning in his sleep.

He went quickly over to the cot and bent down. Stephen's cheeks were flaming, his hands very hot.

Peter rang the bell. Mrs. Kant appeared.

"Is there anything the matter with Stephen?"

Mrs. Kant looked at him, surprised, a little offended. "He's had a little cold all day, sir. I've kept him indoors."

"Have you taken his temperature?"

"Yes, sir, nothing at all unusual. He often goes up and down."

"Have you spoken to your mistress?"

"Yes, sir. She agrees with me that there is nothing unusual--"

He brushed past the woman and went to his wife's bedroom.

She was dressed and was putting on a string of pearls, a wedding present from her father. She smiled up at him--

"Clare, do you know Stephen's ill?"

"No, it's only a cold. I've been up to see him--"

He took her hand--she smiled up at him--"Did you enjoy your visit?" She fastened the necklace.

"Clare, stay in to-night. It may be nothing but if the boy got worse--"

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes."

"I wanted you to go with me this afternoon--"

"That was different. The boy may be really ill--"

"You didn't do what I wanted this afternoon. Why should I do what you want now?"

"Clare, stay. Please, please--"

She took her hand gently out of his, and, as she went out of the door switched off the electric light.

He heard the opening of the hall door and, standing where she had left him in the dark bedroom, saw, shining, laughing at him, her eyes.

CHAPTER XI

WHY?

I

There are occasions in our life when the great Wave so abruptly overwhelms us that before we have recovered our dazed senses it has passed and the water on every side of us is calm again.

There are other occasions when we stand, it may seem through a lifetime of anticipation bracing our backs for the inevitable moment. Every hour before it comes is darkened, every light is dimmed by its implacable shadow. Then when at last it is upon us we meet it with an indifference, almost with a relief, because it has come at last.

So was it now with Peter. During many weeks he had been miserable, apprehensive, seeing an enemy in every wind. Now, behold, his adversary in the open.

"This," he might cry to that old man, down in Scaw House, "this is what you have been preparing for me, is it? At last you've shown me--well, I'll fight you."

Young Stephen was very ill. Peter was strangely assured that it was to be a bad business. Well, it rested with him, Peter, to pull the boy through. If he chose to put his back into it and give the kid some of his own vigour and strength then it was bound to be all right.

Standing there in the dark, he stripped his mind naked; he flung from it every other thought, every other interest--his work, Clare, everything must go. Only Stephen mattered and Stephen should be pulled through.

For an instant, a little cold trembling fear struck his heart.

Supposing...? Then fiercely, flinging the thought from him he trampled it down.

He went to the telephone and called up a doctor who lived in Cheyne Walk. The man could be with him in a quarter of an hour.

Then he went back into the nursery. Mrs. Kant was there.

"I've sent for Dr. Mitchell."

"Very well, sir."

"He'll be here in quarter of an hour."