"No."

"I don't want to give you anything."

"I don't want anything."

He sat down by the side of the bed. He had on his blue bathrobe, and the
open neck showed his strong white throat. "My dear," he said, "I've been
thinking of what you said this morning--about my lack of belief and the
effect it has had on yours. And--I'm sorry."

"Being sorry doesn't help any, does it, Ridgeley?"

"I should like to think that you had your old faiths to--comfort you."

She had no answer for that, and presently he said, "Are you warm
enough?" and brought an extra blanket, because the air was cool after
the storm, and then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Shut your eyes and
sleep if you can."

But of course she couldn't sleep. She lay there for hours, weighing what
he had said to her against what Christopher had said. Each man was
offering her something--Christopher, life at the expense of all her
scruples. Ridgeley, the resurrection of burnt-out beliefs.

She shivered a bit under the blanket. It would be heavenly to hear the
temple bells--with youth beside her. To drink the wine of life from a
brimming cup. But all the time she would be afraid, nothing could take
away that fear.--Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.