Mary met him in the High Street one day, and was really shocked at his looks. She reproached. herself for neglecting him, smiled upon him sweetly, and said:

“Oh, David, do come and see us. Edward will be so pleased. He got a parcel of butterflies from Java last week, and he would so much like you to see them. He was saying so only this morning.”

David made a suitable response. His anger was gone. Mary was Mary. If she were unkind, she was still Mary. If she were trivial, foolish, cruel, what did it matter? Her voice made his blood leap, her eyes were like wine, her hand played on his pulses, and he asked nothing more than to feel that soft touch, and answer to it, with every high-strung nerve. He despised her a little, and himself a good deal, and when a man's passion for a woman is mingled with contempt, it goes but ill with his soul.

That evening saw him again in his old place. He came and went as of old, and, as of old, his fever burned, and burning, fretted away both health and self-respect. He slept less and less, and if sleep came at all, it was so thin, so haunted by ill dreams, that waking was a positive relief. At least when he waked he was still sane, but in those dreams there lurked an impending horror that might at any moment burst the gloom, and stare him mad. It was madness that he feared in the days which linked that endless processing of long, unendurable nights. It was about this time that he began to be haunted by a strange vision, which, like the impending terror, lay just beyond the bounds of consciousness. As on the one side madness lurked, so on the other there were hints, stray gleams, as it were, from some place of peace. And the strange thing about it was, that at these moments a conviction would seize him that this place was his by right. His the deep waters of comfort, and his the wide, unbroken fields of peace, his-but lost.

Yet during all this time David went about his work, and if his patients thought him looking ill, they had no reason to complain either of inefficiency or neglect. His work was in itself a stimulant to him, a stimulant which braced his nerves and cleared his brain during the time that he was under its influence, and then resulted, like all stimulants, in a reaction of fatigue and nervous strain.

In the first days of March, Elizabeth Chantrey had a visit from old Dr. Bull. He sat and had tea with her in her little brown room, and talked about the mild spring weather and the show of buds upon the apple tree in his small square of garden. He also told her that Mrs. Codrington had three broods of chickens out, a fact of which Elizabeth had already been informed by Mrs. Codrington herself. When Dr. Bull had finished dealing with the early chickens, he asked for another cup of tea, took a good pull at it, wiped his square beard with a very brilliant pocket-handkerchief in which the prevailing colours were sky-blue and orange, and remarked abruptly:

“Why don't you get David Blake to go away, hey?-hey?”

Elizabeth frowned a little. This was getting to close quarters.

“I?” she said, with a note of gentle surprise in her voice.

Dr. Bull was quite ready for her. “You is the second person plural-or used to be when I went to school. You, and Mary, and Edward, you 're his friends, are n't you?-and two of you are women, so he 'll have to be polite, hey? Can't bite your heads off the way he bit off mine, when I suggested that a holiday 'ud do him good. And he wants a holiday, hey?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“He ought to go away,” she said.

“He 'll break down if he does n't,” said Dr. Bull. He finished his cup of tea, and held it out. “Yes, another, please. You make him go, and he 'll come back a new man. What 's the good of being a woman if you can't manage a man for his good?”

Elizabeth thought the matter over for an hour, and then she spoke to Edward.

“He won't go,” said Edward, with a good deal of irritation. “I asked him some little time ago whether he was n't going to take a holiday. Now what is there in that to put any one's back up? And yet, I do assure you, he looked at me as if I had insulted him. Really, Elizabeth, I can't make out what has happened to David. He never used to be like this. And he comes here too often, a great deal too often. I shall have to tell him so, and then there 'll be a row, and I simply hate rows. But really, a man in his state, always under one's feet-it gets on one's nerves.”

“Edward is getting dreadfully put out,” said Mary the same evening. She had come down to Elizabeth 's room to borrow a book, and lingered for a moment or two, standing by the fire and holding one foot to the blaze. It was a night of sudden frost after the mild spring day.

“How cold it has turned,” said Mary. “Yes, I really don't know what to do. If Edward goes on being tiresome and jealous”-she bridled a little as she spoke-“if he goes on-well, David will just have to stay away, and I 'm afraid he will feel it. I am afraid it may be bad for him. You know I have always hoped that I was being of some use to David-I have always wanted to have an influence-a good influence does make such a difference, does n't it? I 've never flirted with David-I really have n't-you know that, Liz?”

“No,” said Elizabeth slowly. “You have n't flirted with him, Molly, my dear, but I think you are in rather a difficult position for being a good influence. You see, David is in love with you, and I think it would be better for him if he did n't see you quite so often.”

Mary's colour rose.

“I can't help his being-fond of me,” she said, with a slight air of offended virtue. “I am sure I don't know what you mean by my not being good for him. If it were n't for me he might be drinking himself to death at this very moment. You know how he was going on, and I am sure you can't have forgotten how dreadful he was that night he came here. I let him see how shocked I was. I know you were angry with me, and I thought it very unreasonable of you, because I did it on purpose, and it stopped him. You may say what you like, Liz, but it stopped him. Mrs. Havergill told Markham -yes, I know you don't think I ought to talk to Markham about David, but she began about it herself, and she is really interested, and thought I would like to know-well, she says David has never touched a drop since. Mrs. Havergill told her so. So you see, Liz, I have n't always been as bad for David as you seem to think. I don't know if you want him to go and marry Katie Ellerton, just out of pique. She 's running after him worse than ever-I really do wonder she is n't ashamed, and if David's friends cast him off, well, she 'll just snap him up, and then I should think you 'd be sorry.”

Elizabeth leaned her chin in her hand, and was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Molly, dear, why should we try and prevent David from going to see Katie Ellerton? He is in love with you, and it is very bad for him. If he saw less of you for a time it would give him a chance of getting over it. David is very unhappy just now. No one can fail to see that. He wants what you can't give him-rest, companionship, a home. If Katie cares for him, and can give him these things, let her give them. We have no business to stand in the way. Don't you see that?”

Elizabeth spoke sweetly and persuasively. She kept her eyes on her sister's face, and saw there, first, offence, and then interest-the birth of a new idea.

“Oh, well-if you don't mind,” said Mary. “You are nearly as tiresome as Edward and Edward has been most dreadfully tiresome. I told him so. I said, 'Edward, I really never knew you could be so tiresome,' and it seemed to make him worse. I think, you know, that he is afraid that people will talk if David goes on coming here. Of course, that 's absurd, I told him it was absurd. I said, 'Why, how on earth is any one to know that it is n't Elizabeth he comes to see?' And then, Edward became really violent. I did n't know he could be, but he was. He simply plunged up and down the room, and said: 'If he wants to see Elizabeth, then in Heaven's name let him see Elizabeth. Let him marry Elizabeth.' Oh, you must n't mind, Liz,” as Elizabeth 's head went up, “it was only because he was so cross, and you and David are such old friends. There 's nothing for you to mind.”