“You think I may regret it?” he said.

She turned her face to the window and made no answer.

He sat beside her for a little longer in silence, then rose, bundled up a travelling-rug to form a cushion, and arranged it in her corner.  “Lean against that,” he said kindly.  “I know you can sleep if you don’t try not to.”

She thanked him with trembling lips, and as he turned away she caught his hand for a moment and held it to her cheek.

He withdrew it at once though with absolute gentleness.  He did not speak a word.

Thereafter she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the drumming of the train was in her ears perpetually, and she could not forget it.  Present also was the consciousness of her husband’s quiet watchfulness.  Though he held aloof from her, his care surrounded her unceasingly.  Not once had she felt it relax since she had placed herself in his charge.  Did he guess? she asked herself, and trembled inwardly.  He was being very kind to her in a distant, measured fashion.  Was that the reason for it?  Could it be?

Her thoughts went back to her talk with her cousin, to the bitter words she had uttered.  Would he really care if she were to die?  Would he?  Would he?  She longed to know.

But of course he would not, or he could not be so cold.  For Bertrand’s sake he had come to fetch her.  He had evidently forgiven Bertrand just as he had forgiven Rupert.  He forgave everybody but her, she thought to herself forlornly.  For his wife alone he could not make allowances.

Again the hot tears welled up, and her closed lids could not keep them back.  The dumb anxiety that had gnawed at her heart all through the day returned upon her overwhelmingly, became a burden too heavy to be borne.  She covered her face and sobbed.

“Chris!” Her husband’s voice came down to her in the depths of her distress.  His hand pressed her head.  “Leave off crying,” he said.  “You mustn’t cry.”

She turned her face upwards, all blinded with tears.  “Trevor, I know—­I know we shan’t be in time!”

They were not the words she wanted to say to him, but they came uppermost and were uttered almost before she knew.  She wondered if they would make him angry, but it was too late to recall them.  She reached out her hands to him imploringly.

“Oh, forgive me for caring so much!”

“Hush!” he said again very gently.  “I understand.”

He put the hair back from her forehead, and dried her eyes.  There was something almost maternal in his touch.

“You mustn’t cry,” he said again.  “I think you will be in time, and if you are, you will need all your strength; so you mustn’t waste it now.  Come, you are going to be brave?”

“I’ll try,” she said faintly.

“See if you can get to sleep,” he said.

“But I know I can’t,” whispered Chris.

“I think you can.”  He spoke with grave conviction.