He put up his hands suddenly, covering those useless, tortured eyes.  A very curious tremor went through him.  His heart began to throb thick and hard.  It seemed too good to be true.  Since that first awful day he had not fought against Fate, refraining himself even in his worst hours of darkness and suffering, and now it seemed that Fate was going to be kind after all.  Like Job, he was to receive all—­and more also—­that he had lost.

He broke into a quivering laugh.  “Good old Job!” he said.  “We’re not all such lucky beggars as that.”

And then again that odd little tremor went through him.  It was like a warning, almost a presentiment.  His hands fell.  He sat straight and still, as one waiting for a sign.  No, such things didn’t happen.  Luck like Job’s was apocryphal, abnormal, outside the bounds of human possibility.  They might give him back his sight, but—­He stopped here as if brought up by a sudden obstacle.

“I wonder if I’m a fool to have that operation,” he said.  “I wonder if—­she—­will like me as well if I get back my sight.”

The doubt pressed cold at his heart.  She had been so divinely kind to him ever since the catastrophe.  She had literally given herself up to him, making his darkness light.  And vaguely he knew that she had loved the doing of it, had loved to know that he needed her.  How would it be, he asked himself, when he needed her thus no longer?  Would she love him as well in strength as in weakness?  Would she be as near to him when he no longer needed her to lead him by the hand?

He sprang to his feet with a gesture of fierce impatience.  He flung the doubt away.  Her love was not fashioned of so slender a fabric as this.  What right had he to question it thus?

But yet, despite all self-reproach, the doubt remained, repudiate it as he might.  It went with him even into her loved presence, refusing to be dislodged.

She came with her father to dine in accordance with Max’s invitation.  The evening passed with absolute smoothness.  Sir Kersley and Dr. Jim were old friends, and had a good deal to say to one another.  Max was present at the table, but withdrew early, alleging that he had a serious case to attend.  Olga and Noel were left to themselves.

They retired to Sir Kersley’s drawing-room and spent the rest of the evening there.  Olga was evidently tired, and Noel provided most of the conversation.  Noel was never silent for any length of time.  He lay on the sofa talking with cheery inconsequence, scarcely pausing for any response, till presently he worked round to the subject of his blindness—­a subject which by tacit consent they seldom discussed.

“Max has had a look at me,” he said.  “He thinks they may be able to switch the light on again.  They will have to tighten up a few screws, or something of the kind.  He didn’t let me into the whole ghastly process, but gave me to understand it wouldn’t be exactly a picnic.  I don’t know how long it’s going to take; some time, I fancy.  You’ll pay me a visit now and then, won’t you?”