She turned her head slightly, without moving her eyes. "Presently there will have to be some--mutual arrangement made. But I can't see my way yet. I can't consider the future at all. I feel as if night were falling.

Perhaps--for me--there is no future."

"May I take your pulse?" said Tudor.

She gave him her hand in the same tired fashion. He took it gravely, feeling her pulse, his eyes upon her face.

"Have you no relations of your own?" he asked her suddenly.

She shook her head. "No one near. My parents were both only children."

"And no friends?" he said.

"Only Mrs. Lorimer. I lost sight of people when I married. And then--"

Avery halted momentarily "after my baby girl died, for a long time I didn't seem to care for making new friends."

"Ah!" said Tudor, his tone unwontedly gentle. "You will soon have another child to care for now."

She made a slight gesture as of protest. "Do you know I can't picture it? I do not feel that it will be so. I believe one of us--or both--will die."

She spoke calmly, so calmly that even Tudor, with all his experience, was momentarily shocked. "Avery!" he said sharply. "You are morbid!"

She looked at him then with her tired eyes. "Am I?" she said. "I really don't feel particularly sad--only worn out. When anyone has been burnt--badly burnt--it destroys the nerve tissues, doesn't it? They don't suffer after that has happened. I think that is my case."

"You will suffer," said Tudor.

He spoke brutally; he wanted to rouse her from her lethargy, to pierce somehow that dreadful calm.

But he failed; she only faintly smiled.

"I can bear bodily suffering," she said, "particularly if it leads to freedom and peace."

He got up as if it were he who had been pierced. "You won't die!" he said harshly. "I won't let you die!"

Her eyes went back to the fire, as if attracted thereto irresistibly.

"Most of me died last August," she said in a low voice.

"You are wrong!" He stood over her almost threateningly. "When you hold your child in your arms you will see how wrong. Tell me, when is your husband coming back to you?"

That reached her. She looked up at him with a quick hunted look.

"Never!" she said.

He looked back at her mercilessly. "Never is a long time, Lady Evesham.

Do you think he will be kept at arm's length when you are through your trouble? Do you think--whatever his sins--that he has no claim upon you? Mind, I don't like him. I never did and I never shall. But you--you are sworn to him."

He had never spoken so to her before. She flinched as if he had struck her with a whip. She put her hands over her face, saying no word.

He stood for a few moments stern, implacable, looking down at her. Then very suddenly his att.i.tude changed. His face softened. He stooped and touched her shoulder.

"Avery!" His voice was low and vehement; he spoke into her ear. "When you first kicked him out, I was mean enough to feel glad. But I soon saw--that he took all that is vital in you with him. Avery,--my dear,--for G.o.d's sake--have him back!"

She did not speak or move, save for a spasmodic shuddering that shook her whole frame.

He bent lower. "Avery, I say, can't you--for the baby's sake--anyway consider it?"

She flung out her hands with a cry. "The child is cursed! The child will die!" There was terrible conviction in the words. She lifted a tortured face. "Oh, don't you see," she said piteously, "how impossible it is for me? Don't--don't say any more!"

"I won't," said Tudor.

He took the outflung hands and held them closely, restrainingly, soothingly.

"I won't," he said again. "Forgive me for saying so much! Poor girl!

Poor girl!"

His lips quivered a little as he said it, but his hold was full of sustaining strength. She grew gradually calmer, and finally submitted to the gentle pressure with which he laid her back in her chair.

"You are always so very good to me," she said presently. "I sometimes wonder how I ever came to--to--" She stopped herself abruptly.

"To refuse me?" said Tudor quietly. "I always knew why, Lady Evesham. It was because you loved another man. It has been the case for as long as I have known you."

He turned from her with the words wholly without emotion and took up his stand on the hearth-rug.

"Now may I talk to you about your health?" he said professionally.

She leaned forward slowly. "Dr. Tudor, first will you make me a promise?"

He smiled a little. "I don't think so. I never do make promises."

"Just this once!" she pleaded anxiously. "Because it means a great deal to me."

"Well?" said Tudor.

"It is only--" she paused a moment, breathing quickly--"only that you will not--whatever the circ.u.mstances--let Piers be sent for."

"I can't promise that," said Tudor at once.

She clasped her hands beseechingly. "You must--please--you must!"

He shook his head. "I can't. I will undertake that he shall not come to you against your will. I can't do more than that."

"Do you suppose you could keep him out?" Avery said, a note of quivering bitterness in her voice.

"I am quite sure I can," Tudor answered steadily. "Don't trouble yourself on that head! I swear that, unless you ask for him, he shall not come to you."

She shivered again and dropped back in her chair. "I shall never do that--never--never--so long as I am myself!"

"Your wishes--whatever they are--shall be obeyed," Tudor promised gravely.

And with that gently but very resolutely he changed the subject.