"Ah—if I could sleep——" he said.
"That's the worst of it—his not sleeping," said Milly at the gate.
"He will sleep. He will sleep," said Agatha.
Milly sighed. She knew he wouldn't.
The plan, she said, was no good after all. It wouldn't work.
OW could it? There was nothing behind it. All Milly's plans had been like that; they fell to dust; they were dust. They had been always that pitiful, desperate stirring of the dust to hide the terror, the futile throwing of the dust in the poor thing's eyes. As if he couldn't see through it. As if, with the supernatural lucidity, the invincible cunning of the insane, he didn't see through anything and provide for it. It was really only his indestructible urbanity, persisting through the wreck of him, that bore, tolerantly, temperately, with Milly and her plans. Without it he might be dangerous. With it, as long as it lasted, little Milly, plan as she would, was safe.
But they couldn't count on its lasting. Agatha had realised that from the moment when she had seen him draw down the blind again after his wife had drawn it up. That was the maddest thing he had done yet. She had shuddered at it as at an act of violence. It outraged, cruelly, his exquisite quality. It was so unlike him.