She stopped the running and meditated with a steady, hard deliberation.
She thought of her deep, spiritual love for Robin; of Robin's deep
spiritual love for her; of his strength in shouldering his burden. It was
through her renunciation that he had grown so strong, so pure, so good.


Something had gone wrong with Prissie. Robin, coming home early on
Saturday afternoon, had taken Harriett for a walk. All evening and all
through Sunday it was Priscilla who sulked and snapped when Harriett spoke
to her.

On Monday morning she was ill, and Robin ordered her to stay in bed.
Monday was Harriett's last night. Priscilla stayed in bed till six
o'clock, when she heard Robin come in; then she insisted on being dressed
and carried downstairs. Harriett heard her calling to Robin, and Robin
saying, "I _told_ you you weren't to get up till to-morrow," and a
sound like Prissie crying.

At dinner she shook and jerked and spilt things worse than ever. Robin
gloomed at her. "You know you ought to be in bed. You'll go at nine."

"If I go, you'll go. You've got a headache."

"I should think I had, sitting in this furnace."

The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after
dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin's pale, blank face had a sick
look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the window.

When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as if