What would he not do when the old
moods and brains of the stupid Arthur Lawford, whom he had appreciated
so little and so superficially, came back to him. He ran up the steps and stopped dead, his hand in his pocket, chilled
and aghast. Sheila had taken his keys. He stood there, dazed and still,
beneath the dim yellow of his own fanlight; and once again that inward
spring flew back. ‘Brazen it out; brazen it out! Knock and ring!’

He knocked flamboyantly, and rang. There came a quiet step and the door opened. ‘Dr Simon, of course, has
called?’ he inquired suavely. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ah, and gone’—as I feared. And Mrs Lawford?’

‘I think Mrs Lawford is in, sir.’

Lawford put out a detaining hand. ‘We will not disturb her; we will not
disturb her. I can find my way up; oh yes, thank you!’

But Ada still palely barred the way. ‘I think, sir,’ she said, ‘Mrs
Lawford would prefer to see you herself; she told me most particularly
“all callers.” And Mr Lawford was not to be disturbed on any account.’

‘Disturbed? God forbid!’ said Lawford, but his dark eyes failed to move
these lightest hazel. ‘Well,’ he continued nonchalantly,
‘perhaps—perhaps it—_would_ be as well if Mrs Lawford should know that
I am here. No, thank you, I won’t come in. Please go and tell—’ But
even as the maid turned to obey, Sheila herself appeared at the
dining-room door in hat and veil. Lawford hesitated an immeasurable moment. In one swift glance he
perceived the lamplit mystery of evening, beckoning, calling,
pleading—Fly, fly! Home’s here for you. Begin again, begin again. And
there before him in quiet and hostile decorum stood maid and mistress. He took off his hat and stepped quickly in. ‘So late, so very late, I fear,’ he began glibly. ‘A sudden call, a
perfectly impossible distance. Shall we disturb him, do you think?’

‘Wouldn’t it,’ began Sheila softly, ‘be rather a pity perhaps? Dr Simon
seemed to think.... But, of course, you must decide that.’

Ada turned quiet small eyes. ‘No, no, by no means,’ he almost mumbled. And a hard, slow smile passed over Sheila’s face. ‘Excuse me one
moment,’ she said; ‘I will see if he is awake.’ She swept swiftly
forward, superb and triumphant, beneath the gaze of those dark,
restless eyes. But so still was home and street that quite distinctly a
clear and youthful laughter was heard, and light footsteps approaching. Sheila paused. Ada, in the act of closing the door, peered out. ‘Miss
Alice, ma’am,’ she said. And in this infinitesimal advantage of time Dr Ferguson had seized his
vanishing opportunity, and was already swiftly mounting the stairs. Mrs
Lawford stood with veil half raised and coldly smiling lips and, as if
it were by pre-arrangement, her daughter’s laughing greeting from the
garden, and from the landing above her, a faint ‘Ah, and how are we
now?’ broke out simultaneously. And Ada, silent and discreet, had
thrown open the door again to the twilight and to the young people
ascending the steps. Lawford was still sitting on his bed before a cold and ashy hearth when
Sheila knocked at the door. ‘Yes?’ he said; ‘who’s there?’ No answer followed. He rose with a
shuddering sigh and turned the key. His wife entered. ‘That little exhibition of finesse was part of our agreement, I
suppose?’

‘I say—’ began Lawford. ‘To creep out in my absence like a thief, and to return like a
mountebank; that was part of our compact?’

‘I say,’ he stubbornly began again, ‘did you _wire_ for Alice?’

‘Will you please answer my question? Am I to be a mere catspaw in your
intrigues, in this miserable masquerade before the servants? To set the
whole place ringing with the name of a doctor that doesn’t exist, and a
bedridden patient that slips out of the house with his bedroom key in
his pocket! Are you aware that Ada has been hammering at your door
every half-hour of your absence? Are you aware of that? How much,’ she
continued in a low, bitter voice, ‘how much should I offer for her
discretion?’

‘Who was that with Alice?’ inquired the same toneless voice. ‘I refuse to be ignored. I refuse to be made a child of. Will you
please answer me?’

Lawford turned. ‘Look here, Sheila,’ he began heavily, ‘what about
Alice? If you wired: well, it’s useless to say anything more. But if
you didn’t, I ask you just this one thing. Don’t tell her!’

‘Oh, I perfectly appreciate a father’s natural anxiety.’

Her husband drew up his shoulders as if to receive a blow. ‘Yes, yes,’
he said, ‘but you won’t?’

The sound of a young laughing voice came faintly up from below. ‘How
did Jimmie Fortescue know she was coming home to-day?’

‘Will you not inquire of Jimmie Fortescue for yourself?’

‘Oh, what is the use of sneering?’ began the dull voice again. ‘I am
horribly tired, Sheila. And try how you will, you can’t convince me
that you believe for a moment that I am not myself, that you are as
hard as you pretend. An acquaintance, even a friend might be deceived;
but husband and wife—oh no! It isn’t only a man’s face that’s
himself—or even his hands.’ He looked at them, straightened them slowly
out, and buried them in his pockets. ‘All I care about now is Alice. Is
she, or is she not going to be told? I am simply asking you to give her
just a chance.’

‘“Simply asking me to give Alice a chance”; now isn’t that really just
a little...?’

Lawford slowly shook his head. ‘You know in your heart it isn’t,
Sheila; you understand me quite well, although you persistently pretend
not to. I can’t argue now. I can’t speak up for myself. I am just about
as far down as I can go. It’s only Alice.’

‘I see; a lucid interval?’ suggested his wife in a low, trembling
voice. ‘Yes, yes, if you like,’ said her husband patiently, ‘“a lucid
interval.” Don’t please look at my face like that, Sheila. Think—think
that it’s just lupus, just some horrible disfigurement.’

Not much light was in the large room, and there was something so
extraordinarily characteristic of her husband in those stooping
shoulders, in the head hung a little forward, and in the
preternaturally solemn voice, that Sheila had to bend a little over the
bed to catch a glimpse of the sallow and keener face again. She sighed;
and even on her own strained ear her sigh sounded almost like one of
relief. ‘It’s useless, I know, to ask you anything while you are in this mood,’
continued Lawford dully; ‘I know that of old.’

The white, ringed hands clenched, ‘“Of old!”’

‘I didn’t mean anything. Don’t listen to what I say. It’s only—it’s
just Alice knowing, that was all; I mean at once.’

‘Don’t for a moment suppose I am not perfectly aware that it is only
Alice you think of. You were particularly anxious about my feelings,
weren’t you? You broke the news to me with the tenderest solicitude. I
am glad our—our daughter shares my husband’s love.’

‘Look here,’ said Lawford densely, ‘you know that I love you as much as
ever; but with this—as I am; what would be the good of my saying so?’
Mrs Lawford took a deep breath.