"I am so sorry," she said in a low voice, "that when you called
yesterday I was supposed to be asleep. I have been most anxious to see
you"--she waited a moment and then added his name--"Mr. Coxeter. I knew
that you would have the latest news, and that you would tell it me." "There is news," he said, "of all the boats; good news--with the
exception of the last boat----" His voice sounded strangely to himself. "Oh, but that must be all right too, Mr. Coxeter! The captain said the
boats might drift about for a long time." Coxeter shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said. "In fact"--he waited
a moment, and she came close up to him. "Tell me," she commanded in a low voice, "tell me what you know. They
say I ought to put it all out of my mind, but I can think of nothing
else. Whenever I close my eyes I see the awful struggle that went on
round that last boat!" She gave a quick, convulsive sob. Coxeter was dismayed. How wildly she spoke, how unlike herself she
seemed to-day--how unlike what she had been during the whole of their
terrible ordeal. Already that ordeal had become, to him, something to be treasured. There
is no lack of physical courage in the breed of Englishmen to which John
Coxeter belonged. Pain, entirely unassociated with shame, holds out
comparatively little terror to such as he. There was something rueful in
the look he gave her. "The last boat was run down in the fog," he said briefly. "Some of the
bodies have been washed up on the French coast." She looked at him apprehensively. "Any of the people we had spoken to? Any of those who were with us in the railway carriage?" "Yes, I'm sorry to say that one of the bodies washed up is that of the
person who sat next to you." "That poor French boy?" Coxeter shook his head. "No, no--he's all right; at least I believe he's
all right. It--the body I mean--was that of your other neighbour;" he
added, unnecessarily, "the man who made sweets." And then for the first time Coxeter saw Nan Archdale really moved out of
herself. What he had just said had had the power to touch her, to cause
her greater anguish than anything which had happened during the long
hours of terror they had gone through. She turned and, moving as if
blindly, pressed her hand to her face as if to shut out some terrible
and pitiful sight. "Ah!" she exclaimed in a low voice, "I shall never forgive myself over
that! Do you know I had a kind of instinct that I ought to ask that man
the name, the address"--her voice quivered and broke--"of his friend--of
that poor young woman who saw him off at the Paris station." Till this moment Coxeter had not known that Nan had been aware of what
had, to himself, been so odious, so ridiculous, and so grotesque, a
scene. But now he felt differently about this, as about everything else
that touched on the quick of life. For the first time he understood,
even sympathized with, Nan's concern for that majority of human beings
who are born to suffering and who are bare to the storm....

"Look here," he said awkwardly, "don't be unhappy. It's all right. That
man spoke to me on the boat--he did what you wished, he made a will
providing for that woman; I took charge of it for him. As a matter of
fact I went and saw his old mother yesterday. She behaved splendidly." "Then the life-saver was no good after all?" "No good," he said, and he avoided looking at her. "At least so it would
seem, but who can tell?" Nan's eyes filled with tears; something beckoning, appealing seemed to
pass from her to him.... The door suddenly opened. "Mrs. Eaton, ma'am. She says she only heard what happened, to-day, and
she's sure you will see her." Before Mrs. Archdale could answer, a woman had pushed her way past the
maid into the room. "Nan? Poor darling! What an awful thing! I _am_ glad
I came so early; now you will be able to tell me all about it!" The visitor, looking round her, saw John Coxeter, and seemed surprised. Fortunately she did not know him, and, feeling as if, had he stayed, he
must have struck the woman, he escaped from the room. *       *       *       *       *

As Coxeter went through the hall, filled with a perplexity and pain very
alien from his positive nature, a good-looking, clean-shaven man, who
gave him a quick measured glance, passed by. With him there had been no
parleying at the door as in Coxeter's own case. "Who's that?" he asked, with a scowl, of the servant. "The doctor, sir," and he felt absurdly relieved. "We sent for him
yesterday, for Mrs. Archdale seemed very bad last night." The servant
dropped her voice, "It's the doctor, sir, as says Mrs. Archdale oughtn't
to see visitors. You see it was in all the papers about the shipwreck,
sir, and of course Mrs. Archdale's friends all come and see her to hear
about it. They've never stopped. The doctor, he says that she ought to
have stayed in bed and been quite quiet. But what would be the good of
that, seeing she don't seem able to sleep? I suppose you've not suffered
that way yourself, sir?" The young woman was staring furtively at Coxeter, but, noting his cold
manner and imperturbable face, she felt that he was indeed a
disappointing hero of romance--not at all the sort of gentleman with
whom one would care to be shipwrecked, if it came to a matter of choice. "No," he said solemnly, "I can't say that I have." He looked thoughtfully out into what had never been to him a "long
unlovely street," and which just now was the only place in the world
where he desired to stay. Coxeter, always so sure of himself, and of
what was the best and wisest thing to do in every circumstance of life,
felt for the first time unable to cope with a situation presented to his
notice. As he was hesitating, a carriage drove up, and a footman came forward
with a card, while the occupant of the carriage called out, making
anxious inquiries as to Mrs. Archdale's condition, and promising to call
again the same afternoon. Coxeter suddenly told himself that it behoved him to see the doctor, and
ascertain from him whether Mrs. Archdale was really ill. He crossed the street, and began pacing up and down, and unconsciously
he quickened his steps as he went over every moment of his brief
interview with Nan. All that was himself--and there was a good deal more
of John Coxeter than even he was at all aware of--had gone out to her in
a rapture of memory and longing, but she, or so it seemed to him, had
purposely made herself remote. At last, after what seemed a very long time, the doctor came out of Mrs.
Archdale's house and began walking quickly down the street. Coxeter crossed over and touched him on the arm. "If I may," he said, "I
should like a word with you. I want to ask you--I mean I trust that Mrs.
Archdale is recovering from the effect of the terrible experience she
went through the other night." He spoke awkwardly, stiffly. "I saw her
for a few minutes just before you came, and I was sorry to find her very
unlike herself." The doctor went on walking; he looked coldly at Coxeter.