'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 The clouds had broken, or had been withdrawn like a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.

In the afternoon he got up and dressed himself. He could not
bring himself to stand before the glass and deliberately shave.
He even smiled at the thought of playing the barber to that lean
chin. He dressed by the fireplace.

'I couldn't rest,' he told Sheila, when she presently came in on
one of her quiet, cautious, heedful visits; 'and one tires of
reading even Quain in bed.'

'Have you found anything?' she inquired politely.

'Oh yes,' said Lawford wearily; 'I have discovered that
infinitely worse things are infinitely commoner. But that there's
nothing quite so picturesque.'