He made himself clean in angry haste, taking the
whisk from the man and brushing off the dry mud with a
vicious fury.

Lucy came to meet him, with a pale, anxious smile. "You
must not go without a cup of hot coffee," she said,
leading him to a lounge in the hall. It was very sweet
to be treated like a sick man!

"And God knows I am sick, body and soul!" he thought,
sinking down.

Beside the lounge was a little table with one cover. He
noted with keen pleasure the delicate napery, the silver
candlesticks, the bowl of roses, with which the
substantial meal was set out. Lucy waited on him with
the quick intelligence of a trained nurse. She scarcely
spoke, yet her every motion, as she served him, seemed a
caress. When he had finished he began to stammer out his
thanks.

"No," she said, rising decisively. "You are too weak to
talk to me to-night, Mr. Waldeaux. The coupe is at the
door. John will drive you home. You need sleep now."

As he sank down into the luxurious cushions and drove
away through the twilight, he saw the little white figure
in the door, and the grave wistful face looking after
him.