‘No,’ said Sheila; ‘but—it was at least unfortunate. We can’t, I suppose, rely on Dr Bethany alone.’
Lawford crouched over his food. ‘Will he blab?’
‘Blab! Mr Danton is a gentleman, Arthur.’
Lawford rolled his eyes as if in temporary vertigo. ‘Yes,’ he said. And Sheila once more prepared to make a reposeful exit.
‘I don’t think I can see Simon this morning.’
‘Oh. Who, then?’
‘I mean I would prefer to be left alone.’
‘Believe me, I had no intention to intrude.’ And this time the door really closed.
‘He is in a quiet, soothing sleep,’ said Sheila a few minutes later.
‘Nothing could be better,’ said Dr Simon; and Lawford, to his inexpressible relief, heard the fevered throbbing of the doctor’s car reverse, and turned over and shut his eyes, dulled and exhausted in the still unfriendliness of the vacant room. His spirits had sunk, he thought, to their lowest ebb. He scarcely heeded the fragments of dreams—clear, green landscapes, amazing gleams of peace, the sudden broken voices, the rustling and calling shadowiness of subconsciousness—in this quiet sunlight of reality. The clouds had broken, or had been withdrawn like a veil from the October skies. One thought alone was his refuge; one face alone haunted him with its peace; one remembrance soothed him—Alice. Through all his scattered and purposeless arguments he strove to remember her voice, the loving-kindness of her eyes, her untroubled confidence.