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look like that . . . probably thinking of something else. . . . There was Brad's radio. Jock tried not to look at it; then looked hard at it. He paused and touched the dials with his fingers. Brad had loved so to fumble with them! To cry delightedly, "Listen, people, this is good!" . . . And Eunice had always complained: "Come away from that thing, Brad. It makes me blue. I feel as though everybody in the world was dancing in some gay café except me and I had to sit home and listen out of a box" . . . Eunice. How would she be? How would she take it? He wondered if Eunice knew why. If Brad had told her, or left some message.

The gaunt woman returned and said, "Mrs. Hathaway is lying down. Will you step this way, please?"

They had shut the sun from Eunice's bedroom, and in the semi-dark Jock could distinguish her only as a wave down a silken coverlet and a pale face haloed with black hair. And hands. Hands that picked at the silk of the coverlet ceaselessly, like little white rats nibbling.

He went to the side of the bed and took one of the hands in his. "Eunice——"

Her voice was a breath that hardly stirred. You had to strain your ears to catch it. "Jock—I'm—glad you came."

"Of course I came," he said, "as soon as I heard. Eunice, you know what this means to me——"

"I know, Jock."

He pulled up a chair and sat down. He felt helpless, trying to think of something to say. His mind was full of questions—but not now. He must say something comforting now. Poor Eunice, oh, poor little girl! . . . All his antagonism toward her fled away now, beaten off by the sight of her suffering.