I; and Lawford turned back to his bondage with the book under his
arm.



CHAPTER EIGHT

The Sabbath, pale with September sunshine, and monotonous with
chiming bells, had passed languidly away. Dr Simon had come and
gone, optimistic and urbane, yet with a faint inward
dissatisfaction over a patient behind whose taciturnity a hint of
mockery and subterfuge seemed to lurk. Even Mrs Lawford had
appeared to share her husband's reticence. But Dr Simon had
happened on other cases in his experience where tact was required
rather than skill, and time than medicine.

The voices and footsteps, even the frou-frou of worshippers going
to church, the voices and footsteps of worshippers returning from
church, had floated up to the patient's open window. Sunlight had
drawn across his room in one pale beam, and vanished. A few
callers had called. Hothouse flowers, waxen and pale, had been
left with messages of sympathy. Even Dr Critchett had respectfully
and discreetly made inquiries on his way home from chapel.

Lawford had spent most of his time in pacing to and fro in his
soft slippers. The very monotony had eased his mind. Now and
again he had lain motionless, with his face to the ceiling. He
had dozed and had awakened, cold and torpid with dream. He had
hardly been aware of the process, but every hour had done
something, it seemed, towards clarifying his point of view. A