No one in this desolate cottage had time to think of the accumulation of troubles that had come upon them: the silence, broken only by Cicely’s strange singing, the grief of Paul for his brother, the dumb despair of the old man, the absence of little Jack, the near presence of Death. But of the four faces, that of Eve expressed the deepest hopelessness. She stayed constantly in the room where Cicely was, but she did nothing; from the first she had not offered to help in any way, and the doctor, seeing that she was to be of no use, had sent a nurse. On the fourth day, Paul said: “You must have some sleep, Eve. Go to your room; I will have you called if she grows worse.”
“Why? There is nothing for you to do.”
“You mean that I do nothing. I know it; but I must stay.”
On the seventh evening he spoke again; Cicely’s quiet state had now lasted twenty-four hours. “Lying on a lounge is no good, Eve; to-night you must go to bed. Otherwise we shall have you breaking down too.”
“Do I look as though I should break down?”
They had happened to meet in the hall outside of Cicely’s door; the sunset light, coming through a small window, flooded the place with gold.
“If you put it in that way, I must say you do not.”
“I knew it. I am very strong.”
“You speak as though you regretted it.”