Aliette, too, waited--waited downstairs in the dining-room where Kate had insisted on lighting a fire for her--waited and waited while the slow half-hours went by. She felt weary; but there was no sleep in her weariness. Her ears, keyed to acutest tension, magnified every whisper in the house of illness; Dr. Redbank's feet in the hall, the jar of the front door, the taxi chugging away, the faint creak of carpeted stairs, the fainter clink of crockery in the basement.

At four o'clock Kate came in with a pot of coffee; at half-past, Smithers to ask if the nurse had arrived. Aliette suffered both maids to go without question. In that well-ordered home she felt herself the useless stranger. Her muscles yearned to be of use, to be doing something, anything, for Julia. "I owe her so much," she thought; "such a debt of gratitude."

The impotence of her muscles stung her mind. Her mind ached with memories, memories of Julia, of her brusk kindliness, of her courage. "I wonder if she knew," thought Aliette. And at that, painfully, her mind conjured up the "scene" she had made--Julia comforting her--Julia's unspoken challenge--her own promise. "She knew then," thought Aliette. "She must have known. That was why she wanted to be certain--of me."

At last the nurse arrived. At last Ronnie, tired out, white-faced, and unshaven, left his post on the landing and joined her.

She asked him, "How is she?"

"Better. Much better. She's asleep."

"Isn't there anything I can do?"

"No, dear, nothing." His voice seemed curiously toneless, and after two or three nervous puffs at a cigarette he again went upstairs.

Another half-hour went by. Already Aliette could see hints of dawn behind the dining-room curtains. Now, knowing danger averted, her mind reacted. She wanted desperately to sleep. Her eyes closed wearily. But her ears were still keen to sound. She heard the doctor's feet and Ronnie's creep cautiously downstairs, heard their whispered colloquy at the dining-room door, woke from her brief doze before they could open it.

"I do hope you haven't been frightened." Dr. Redbank smiled professionally at the pale pretty woman by the fireside. "I hear we have to thank your thoughtfulness for the ice. Most useful it was, too. I have assured your husband that there is no cause for immediate alarm."

"You're sure, doctor?"

"Quite sure. However, as I understand that your mother-in-law's regular attendant is away, I purpose looking in tomorrow, or rather this morning, at about half-past ten. Meanwhile, you must keep her quiet; and, of course, no solid food." He shook hands with her; and went out, accompanied by Ronnie. Aliette, still sleepy, heard the front door close gently behind him.

"Good man, that," said Ronnie, returning. He sat down heavily at the table, and tried to light himself another cigarette. But his hands trembled. The smoke seemed to stifle him.

"Won't you have some coffee?" she asked, suddenly wide awake, and as suddenly aware of the misery in his eyes.

"Thanks dear, not yet."

Rising, she laid a hand on his arm.

"Man," she ventured, "was it very terrible?"

"Dreadful." His voice, usually so controlled, shook on the word, jangling her overwrought nerves to breaking strain. "She's dying. Dying."

"But the doctor said----"

"Never mind the doctor. I know. And Alie," a sob tore at his diaphragm, "it's my fault."

"Your fault?" Awfully, she guessed his meaning.

"Yes."

Her hand dropped from his arm, and they stared at one another in silence.

"Tell me," she said at last.

"No. Not now. Not yet." The remoteness of his eyes frightened her.

"I'd rather know," she pleaded; and again, "Why is it your fault? How can it be your fault?"

"I'd rather not tell you." Once more she caught that frightening remoteness in his eyes--in his very voice. Then, awfully, his reserve broke. "She knew all the time, Alie."

"Knew what?" There was no need for her question.

"That she had consumption. That her only hope was to go away. She only stayed on in London for--for," the words choked in his throat, "my sake."

Minutes passed. Through the chinks in the curtains Aliette could see dawn growing and growing. Her mouth ached to comfort him; but she dared not speak. Her eyes ached for tears; but she dared not shed a tear. Superstition tortured her mind--it seemed to her as though, Biblically, their sin had found them out. Then resolutely, remembering the promise sealed by her own lips to the dying, she put superstition from her.

"Not your fault," she said at last. "Not even our fault. Ronnie--believe me--even if she did know that she--that she was very ill--she knew that you and I loved her, that we couldn't, either of us, do without her. She's--she's not going to die. Not with us, both of us, to nurse her--to look after her."

"Alie--you--you believe there's a chance?" He rose from the table; and she saw that the remoteness had gone from his eyes.

"Chance!" she smiled at him. "Chance! It's not a question of chance, man. We'll make her get well."

And with those words, Aliette knew that she had paid a little of her debt to them both.