"You are good!" she cried.
He patted her shoulder. "Go to bed now, and keep up the pretence of the headache." (Indeed, it was no pretence by this time.) "I will come to see you again later in the day, and we will talk it all over quietly. In the meantime you must rest." He took from his pocket a little bottle of pellets and gave her one—"Take this at once, it will make you sleep, and when I come back you will be rested and clear in your mind, so that we can discuss your future plans. I shall leave orders that you are not to be disturbed. Remember, above all, that you have nothing to fear, I, at least, shall stand by you, and see you through—you shall see that everything can be arranged."
She made no answer, so he passed his hand lightly over her bowed head, and left the room.
Ragna laid the pellet on the table, and sat on stupidly in her chair, her head supported by her hands. She felt blank and stunned; gradually, out of her blind chaos of misery rose terrible and concrete this thing that was upon her; it obsessed her half-paralysed brain with a sense of inevitable, unreasonable doom. She wondered dully why she had not thought of this contingency, and yet the possibility of it had never entered her mind. To bear a child of his, and in this way! She shivered with horror. And the shame, the disgrace of it! For this could not be hidden, this could not be passed over and buried in oblivion—the coming of the child would blazen her dishonour to the eyes of all men. Oh why could she not die? Surely things had been bad enough as they were before, but this—this was unendurable. The water sparkled there invitingly, beneath the balcony—a plunge and it would soon be over. Why should she live, why bear this shame, while he went scot free? What was there to compel her to tread this Via Crucis, when the way of escape lay open? The water called her; with a feverish hunted look in her eyes she staggered to the balcony, drew the awning aside. The door behind her opened silently, a strong hand grasped her shoulder.
"Doctor!" she gasped.
"Signorina," asked Ferrati sternly, "what were you about to do? Something warned me to come back, and thank Heaven I have been in time! You were about to throw yourself into the Canal, were you not?"
He forced her into a chair, and stood towering accusingly over her. She met his gaze with defiant despair.
"Yes, I was. What right have you to stop me?"
"I have the right to prevent you from adding crime to weakness. Yes, crime," he added, seeing her wince.
"Understand me, had it been a question of yourself only, I should not say this—you see my morality is not of the conventional pattern—but you have not only yourself to think of, there is the child—your child. If by your past weakness, wittingly or unwittingly, you have incurred this responsibility, you cannot repudiate it, you must bear the consequences, you cannot brush them aside. You think that this, the physical part, and the disgrace implied were a price that you could avoid paying by forfeiting your life, but you cannot forfeit for another. You are no longer alone, you have another life to consider, that of an innocent and helpless child who did not ask to be born—"