Technically the little doctor spoke the truth. Henson muttered
something that sounded like an apology. Walker smiled graciously and
suggested that rest and a plain diet were all that his patient needed.
Rest was the great thing. The bandages need not be removed for a day or
two, at the expiration of which time he would look in again. Once the
road was reached in safety Walker took off his hat and wiped the beads
from his forehead.

"What a house," he muttered. "What a life to lead. Thank goodness I need
not go there again before Saturday. If anybody were to offer me a small
glass of brandy with a little soda now, I should feel tempted to break
through my rule and drink it."

Meanwhile the long terror of the day dragged on inside the house. The
servants crept about the place on tiptoe, the hideous bell clanged out,
Mrs. Henson paced wearily up and down the drawing-room, singing and
muttering to herself, until Enid was fain to fly or break down and yell
hysterically. It was one of Margaret Henson's worst days.

The death of Christiana seemed to affect her terribly. Enid watched her
in terror. More than once she was fearful that the frail thread would
snap--the last faint glimmer of reason go out for ever. And yet it would
be madness to tell Margaret Henson the truth. In the first place she
would not have understood, and on the other hand she might have
comprehended enough to betray to Reginald Henson. As it was, her grief
was obvious and sincere enough. The whole thing was refinedly cruel, but
really there was no help for it. And things had gone on splendidly.

Henson was powerless to interfere, and the doctor was satisfied. Once she