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Babbacombe barely glanced up from his letter. “You are always finding that the people you don’t like resemble criminals, Ursula,” he said, with something less than his usual courtesy. “Did you say you were leaving by the eleven-fifty? I think I shall come with you.”

“My dear Jack, how you change! I thought you were going to stay down here for another week.”

“I was,” he answered. “But I have had a line from Cynthia to tell me that her hand is poisoned from that infernal trap. It may be very serious. It probably is, or she would not have written.”

That note of Cynthia’s had in fact roused his deepest anxiety. He had fancied all along that she had deliberately made light of the injury. Soon after three o’clock he was in town, and he hastened forthwith to Cynthia’s flat in Mayfair.

He found her on a couch in her dainty boudoir, lying alone before the fire. Her eyes shone like stars in her white face as she greeted him.

“It was just dear of you to come so soon,” she said. “I kind of thought you would. I’m having a really bad time for once, and I thought you’d like to know.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, sitting down beside her.

Her left hand lay in his for a few moments, but after a little she softly drew it away. Her right was in a sling.

“There’s hardly anything to tell,” she said. “Only my arm is bad right up to the shoulder, and the doctor is putting things on the wound so that it sha’n’t leave off hurting night or day. I dreamt I was Dante last night. But no, I won’t tell you about that. It was too horrible. I’ve never been really sick before, Jack. It frightens me some. I sent for you because I felt I wanted–a friend to talk to. It was outrageously selfish of me.”

“It was the kindest thing you could do,” Babbacombe said.

“Ah, but you mustn’t misunderstand.” A note of wistfulness sounded in the high voice. “You won’t misunderstand, will you, Jack? I only want–a friend.”

“You needn’t be afraid, Cynthia,” he said. “I shall never attempt to be anything else to you without your free consent.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I know I’m very mean. But I had such a bad night. I thought that all the devils in hell were jeering at me because I had told you my romance was dead. Oh, Jack! it was a great big lie, and it’s come home to roost. I can’t get rid of it. It won’t die.”

He heard the quiver of tears in her confession, and set his teeth.

“My dear,” he said, “don’t fret about that. I knew it at the bottom of my heart.”

She reached out her hand to him again. “I hate myself for treating you like this,” she whispered. “But I–I’m lonely, and I can’t help it. You–you shouldn’t be so kind.”

“Ah, child, don’t grudge me your friendship,” he said. “It is the dearest thing I have.”

“It’s so hard,” wailed Cynthia, “that I can give you so little, when I would so gladly give all if I could.”

“You are not to blame yourself for that,” he answered steadily. “You loved each other before I ever met you.”

“Loved each other!” she said. “Do you really mean that, Jack?”

He hesitated. He had not intended to say so much.

“Jack,” she urged piteously, “then you think he really cares?”

“Don’t you know it, Cynthia?” he asked, in a low voice.

“My heart knows it,” she said brokenly. “But my mind isn’t sure. Do you know, Jack, I almost proposed to him because I felt so sure he cared. And he–he just looked beyond me, as if–as if he didn’t even hear.”

“He thinks he isn’t good enough for you,” Babbacombe said, with an effort. “I don’t think he will ever be persuaded to act otherwise. He seems to consider himself hopelessly handicapped.”

“What makes you say that?” whispered Cynthia.