when she awoke the next morning after a very few hours' sleep, she did so suddenly, to a full consciousness of her situation, and not little by little, passing by gradual stages to realization, as was her wont. she listened; no sound came through the two half-open doors. the brandy had not been needed. perhaps he was asleep; perhaps he had had a good night and was perfectly restored. she rose, unfastened the window and very quietly pushed back the shutters. it was raining. just as she was, her hair loose and the delicate and absurd rag of a nightdress all untied, she surveyed herself sternly in the mirror. she was well content with her beauty. impossible to criticize it! in every way she was far more beautiful than the nameless woman whom she had befriended and who had befriended her.

partly because she had been generous to her, she felt sympathy for the girl. the phrase "us girls" stung her still, but it was not ill meant; in fact, it was a rather natural phrase, and no doubt already her acquaintance must have perceived how wrong it was. she admired the girl for her fierce defiance and courage, and for the intense passion with which she had desired the grave. "stretched straight out! quiet for ever and ever!" startling and outrageous words, in that harsh young voice; but there was something fine about them! ("i may say the same one day soon," lilian thought solemnly.) moreover, she understood better the power of the girl, whose kiss and clasp had communicated to her a most disconcerting physical thrill. indeed, it seemed to her that she was on the threshold of all sorts of new comprehensions. finally she had astonished the girl by the grand loan; she had shone; she had pleased; she had satisfied her instinct to give pleasure. she thought:

"she may be stronger than i am, and cleverer; but she is very silly and i am not. and i'm not weak either, even if some people take me for weak."

it was disturbing, though, how that phrase pricked and pricked: "us girls." little flames shot up from the ashes of her early and abandoned religion. "the wages of sin--the wages of sin." was it true about the wages of sin? was she to be punished? the great, terrible fear of conception still dominated her soul; and it grew hourly. at each disappointing dawn the torture of it increased. she saw the powders and preparations which the courtesan had given her; she recalled the minute directions for the use of them, and smiled painfully. how could the prospective mother employ such devices? nevertheless, if she escaped, she would employ them as soon as felix was better. she knew that felix would delight in the perverse, provocative transformation, and she yearned to gratify him afresh in a novel manner. when the surprise came upon him he would pretend that it was nothing; but he would be delighted, he would revel in it.

putting on her peignoir she slipped noiselessly into the other bedroom, and crept up to the bed. needless precaution; felix was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. before speaking she tenderly kissed him, and kept her face for a moment on his.

"better?"

"had an awful night. couldn't sleep a wink. i won't get up just yet. order me tea instead of coffee. we'll go out after lunch, not before."

"do you think you ought to go out, dearest?"

"of course i ought to go out," he snapped peevishly.

"it's raining."

"oh, well, if it's raining i dare say i shan't want to go out." he placed his hand nervously on his right breast.

"does it hurt you?"

"not at all. can't i touch myself?"

she kissed him again. then he gazed at her with love, as she moved over him to ring the bell.

"you all right?"

"oh, splendid! i listened once or twice at the door, but as i didn't hear anything i made sure you were asleep."

she kept silence about her awful, persistent fear, knowing that any reference to it would only irritate him. he was more than ever like a child--and a captious child. she realized the attitude of his sister towards him. thank god he was better! if he had fallen ill she would have condemned herself as a criminal for life, for her insane, selfish suggestion of an excursion to the hills at night. not he, but she, was the child.

after his tea he did get up and dress; but he would not descend to lunch; nor eat in the bedroom. at three o'clock he said that when it rained on the riviera the climate was the most damnable on earth, and that he preferred to be in bed. and to bed he returned. then lilian noticed him fingering his breast again.

"any pain there?"

"oh! nothing. nothing. only a sort of sensation."

soon afterwards he gave a few very faint, short, dry coughs--scarcely perceptible efforts to clear the throat. and at the same lilian went cold. she knew that cough. she had helped to nurse her father. it was the affrighting pneumonia cough. almost simultaneously it occurred to her that felix was trying to hide from her a difficulty in breathing. she had not dreamed of anything so bad as pneumonia, which for her was the direst of all diseases. and she with a plan for dyeing her skin to amuse and excite him! ... she had thought of a severe chill at the worst.

she hurried downstairs to see the concierge. the lift was too slow in coming up for her; she had to run down the flights of carpeted steps one after another. the main question on her mind was: "ought i to telegraph to his sister?" if miss grig arrived, what would, what could happen to herself? the concierge--a dark, haughty, long-moustached, somewhat consumptive subject--adored lilian for her beauty, and she had rewarded his worship with exquisite smiles and tones.

"would you like the english doctor, madam?" said he.

"is there an english doctor here?" she was immensely relieved. she would be able to talk to an english doctor, whereas a french doctor with his shrugs and science, and understanding nothing you said....

"surely, madam! i will telephone at once, madam. he shall be here in one quarter hour. i know where he is. he is a very good doctor."

"oh, thank you!" concierges were marvellous persons.

as soon as she had gone again the concierge made all the pages tremble. it was the thwarted desire to kneel at lilian's feet and kiss her divine shoes that caused him to terrorize the pages.

as for telegraphing to miss grig, she decided that obviously she could send no message till the doctor had examined and reported. in regard to the hotel authorities and servants she now had no shame. she alone was responsible for felix's welfare, and she would be responsible, and they must all think what they liked about her relations with him. she did not care.

the concierge was indeed marvellous, for in less than twenty minutes there was a knock at felix's door. lilian opened, saw a professional face with hair half sandy, half grey, and, turning to felix, murmured:

"it's the doctor, darling."

felix, to whom she had audaciously said not a word about sending for a doctor, actually sat up, furious.

"i'm not going to see a doctor," he gasped. "i'm not going to see any doctor."

"come in, doctor, please."

the moment was dramatic. felix of course was beaten.

"you'll find me in the next room, doctor," she said, after a minute, and the doctor bowed. in another ten minutes the doctor entered her bedroom.

"it's a mild attack of pneumonia," said he, standing in front of her. "very mild. i can see no cause for anxiety. you'd better have a nurse for the night."

"i would sooner sit up myself," lilian answered. "i've nursed pneumonia before."

"then have a nurse for the day," the doctor suggested. "i can get an english one from the alexandra hospital--a very good one. she might come in at once and stay till ten o'clock, say." then he proceeded to the treatment, prescriptions, and so on.... an english nurse!

lilian felt extraordinarily grateful and reassured. she knew where she was now. she was in england again.

"ought i to telegraph home?" she asked.

"i shouldn't if i were you," the doctor replied. "better to wait for a day or two. telegrams are so disturbing, aren't they?"

his gentle manner was inexpressibly soothing. it was so soothing that just as he was leaving she kept him back with a gesture.

"doctor, before you go, i wish you would do something for me." and she sat down, her face positively burning and shed tears.

in the night, as she sat with felix, the patient's condition unquestionably improved. he even grew cheerful and laudatory.

"you're a great girl," he muttered weakly but firmly. "i know i was most absurdly cross, but i'm a rotten invalid."

she looked at him steadily, and, her secret resolve enfeebled by his surprising and ravishing appreciation, she let forth, against the dictates of discretion, the terrific fact which was overwhelming her and causing every fibre in her to creep.

"it's true what i told you."

"what?"

"you know----" (a pause.)

"how do you know it's true?"

"the doctor----"

his reception of the tidings falsified every expectation. he waited a moment, and then said calmly:

"that's all right. i'll see to that."

she did not kiss him, but, sitting on the bed, put her head beside his on the pillow. seen close, his eyelashes appeared as big as horsehairs and transcendently masculine. she tasted the full, deep savour of life then, moveless, in an awkward posture, in the midst of the huge sleeping hotel. she had no regrets, no past, only a future.