They clung together for several moments. The door had slammed in the draught, and the darkness crept softly round them like an embrace. The dream slipped from Nigel—his silly and hideous nightmare of stars. This quivering, tear-stained woman in his arms had brought him into the reality of sorrow.
"Where is he?—what's happened?" he asked, still holding Janey.
"He's upstairs in bed—he's very ill, Nigel."
"But he's not dead?"
"Not yet."
"Is there any hope?"
"Not much—he's got pneumonia. It's dreadful."
"Has the doctor seen him?"
"Yes—he's been gone only an hour. He said you were to be sent for at once. Oh, Nigel, Nigel, it's my fault!"
"What d'you mean?"