CHAPTER IV


For once in his life Majendie was glad that he had a business. Shipping
(he was a ship-owner) was a distraction from the miserable problem that
weighed on him at home.

Anne's morning face was cold to him. She lay crushed in her bed. She had
had a bad night, and he knew himself to be the cause of it.

His pity for her hurt like passion.

"How is she?" asked Edith, as he came into her room before going to the
office.

"She's a wreck," he said, "a ruin. She's had an awful night. Be kind to
her, Edie."

Edie was very kind. But she said to herself that if Anne was a ruin that
was not at all a bad thing.

Edith Majendie was a loving but shrewd observer of the people of her
world. Lying on her back she saw them at an unusual angle, almost as if
they moved on a plane invisible to persons who go about upright on their
legs. The four walls of her room concentrated her vision in bounding it.
She saw few women and fewer men, but she saw them apart from those
superficial activities which distract and darken judgment. Faces that
she was obliged to see bending over her had another aspect for Edith than