But Patricia’s fears did not abate. To her, the days were terror; the nights, agony. The very love she bore her husband became a scourge.

For Patricia was not interested in “cases”: her interest lay in Peter the man. And Peter the man, as she saw him now, seemed utterly broken. She lived too close to his body, too far from his mind, to be aware of the gradual cure which was being wrought in him. She saw only the shaking hands, the glaring eyes of neurasthenia; heard only its high-pitched quavering voice, its outbursts of uncontrollable rage, its intolerable depressions. Night after night, Peter’s screams woke her from tormented sleep: day after day his temper fretted her almost to breaking point.

Yet, out of the very love which scourged her, Patricia fashioned healing for him. Calm, clear-eyed, infinitely tender, mastering herself to save him, she walked by his side through the cold shadows—understanding sometimes, pitying always, but faltering never, learning with each painful step Love’s ultimate lesson, the lesson of self-sacrifice.

And always, as she walked beside him, the petty responsibilities of home-keeping—responsibilities she had never known in the sheltered days of their Kensington existence—fretted at her mind. (They are not “literature,” these responsibilities of home-keeping; they are neither dramatic, nor romantic: but, for the women of what we in England call the “middle-class,” they are “life”—the instant problem of existence, its thousand daily pettinesses which may not be postponed. Only the “middle-class” woman, the woman of moderate income who wants not a house but a home, will understand how much these responsibilities added to Patricia’s burden!)....

One other burden, too, she carried on her willing shoulders through those dark days of January, 1917—the burden of her responsibility for Francis Gordon. Her brain was never quite free from the picture of the long writing-room, the fire in the grate, the dark bookshelves against the cream walls, and the big desk under the window—the desk—and the silver photograph-frame—and the menacing fully-cocked pistol.

“Melodrama!” she used to say to herself. “Melodrama! People don’t kill themselves for love nowadays—they only kill for hate.” But intuition warned her, every time she saw Francis, that he had determined on suicide. She told herself that such a man was not worth saving, that he was a weakling, a coward ... but her mind never ceased to make excuses for him.

“Supposing,” she used to argue, “that I had lost Peter and the children—supposing that I were a cripple—supposing that I saw nothing ahead of me but a dragged-out, sexless existence, wouldn’t I think of Death kindly, look forward to it as a relief?” ...

Again and again, she tackled him about his writing; again and again, he gave her the same answer, “It’s a futile game, Pat. Futile! Books are the most useless things in the world. The worst-educated agricultural labourer does more good with his hoe in ten minutes than I can do with my pen in a whole life-time.” “Then why not take a hoe?” Patricia used to say. “Some of us can’t!” answered Francis Gordon. “We’re built to be brain-workers—and brain-work doesn’t satisfy us. Besides....”

Patricia knew too well the meaning of that “Besides,” of the downward glance at his left leg, at the distorted boot and the crutch-stick, which accompanied it. At such times, she was glad that she had written to “that girl.” Perhaps, “that girl” would understand.... But January passed; February opened with threats of unlimited submarine warfare; threat turned to actuality—and still no word arrived from Beatrice.

“Why should she answer?” thought Patricia. “Why should she come? It was a crazy letter to have written. Perfectly crazy!”