The water would not boil, demonstrating the cruel truth of proverbs.  She sat down and, gazing into the stove, now a rich red, ignored the saucepan.  The dry heat from the stove burnt her ankles and face.  Not a sound from the small saucepan, balanced on its tripod over the wavering blue flame of the spirit-lamp!  At last, uncontrollably impatient, she lifted the teapot off the inverted lid of the saucepan, where she had placed it to warm, and peered into the saucepan.  The water was cheerfully boiling!  She made the tea, and sat down again to wait until it should be infused.  She had to judge the minutes as well as she could, for she would not go across to the night-table to look at Louis’ watch; her own was out of order, and so was the clock.  She counted two hundred and fifty, and then, anticipating feverishly the tonic glow of the tea in her breast, she poured out a cup.  Only colourless steaming water came forth from the pot.  She had forgotten to put in the tea!  Misfortune not unfamiliar to dazed makers of tea in the night!  But to Rachel now the consequences of the omission seemed to amount to a tragedy.  Had she the courage to begin the interminable weary process afresh?  She was bound to begin it afresh.  With her eyes obscured by tears, she put the water back into the saucepan and searched for the match-box.  The water boiled almost immediately, and by so doing comforted her.

While waiting for the infusion, she realized little by little that for a few moments she must have been nearly hysterical, and she partially resumed possession of herself.  The sniffing ceased, her vision cleared; she grew sardonic.  All her chest was filled with cold lead.  “This truly is the end,” she thought.  She had thought that Julian’s confession must be the end of the violent experiences which had befallen her in Mrs. Malden’s house.  Then she had thought that Louis’ accident must be the end.  Each time she had been mistaken.  But she could not be mistaken now.  No conceivable event, however awful, could cap Louis’ confession that he had thieved—­and under such circumstances!

She did not drink the first cup of tea.  No!  She must needs carry it, spilling it, to Louis in bed.  He was asleep, or he was in a condition that resembled sleep.  Assuredly he was ill.  He made a dreadful object in his bandages amid the disorder of the bed, upon which strong shadows fell from the gas and from the stove.  No matter!  If he was ill, he was ill.  So much the worse for him!  He was not dangerously ill.  He was merely passing through a stress which had to be passed through.  It would soon be over, and he would be the same eternal Louis that he had always been.

“Here!” she said.

He stirred, opened his eyes.

“Here’s some tea!” she said coldly.  “Drink it.”

He gave a gesture of dissent.  But it was useless.  She had brewed the tea and had determined that he should drink a cup.  Whether he desired it or loathed it was a question irrelevant.  He was appointed to drink some tea, and she would not taste until he had drunk.  This self-sacrifice was her perverse pleasure.