It was very hot in the house, and her head was really aching. She went out in the garden, but there was no shade on the lawn, and she turned into the little spinny. She had not walked half a dozen yards under the trees when she was startled by seeing the figure of a man lying, with his head upon his arm, among the dew-wet bracken.
It was Trafford lying asleep in his dress clothes! She stood stock-still, terribly frightened, and, as if he felt her eyes upon him, he woke, and, seeing her, rose to his feet and stood looking round him for a moment with a dazed air.
“Trafford!” she said.
He turned his eyes upon her like a man slowly coming back to life—and not gladly.
“Why are you lying here?” she asked. “What is it?” And she went up to him half fearfully and touched his arm.
“I—I fell asleep,” he said in a hard, strained voice, “I was out here—walking—and lay down. I must have fallen asleep without knowing it.”
He passed his hand over his wet hair with a weary, listless gesture.
“What has happened?” she asked under her breath.
He looked at her for a moment before he answered, then he smiled—a terrible smile.