osed his eyes again to veil this violent impulse. Sophy
noticed for the first time that evening this trick of closing his eyes,
which grew on him so rapidly from that time. It took him four or five
minutes to regain the atmosphere of the part which he had chosen. When
he spoke again, it was in that same mild, rather melancholy voice that
had so touched her.

"My dear Daphne," he said, "I suppose there's a pinch of cowardice in us
all--tucked away in some chink of our charming human nature. Morphine
has brought out this in me. I----"

"Oh, no, Cecil! No--_no_!"

Her voice was beautifully fervent. He hurried on. She must not shatter
his present mood again.

"Often I've thought: 'Shall I tell her? Shall I ask her help? She's a
brave, loyal thing. She'll stand by me--even through this.'"

"Oh, I would have! I will!"

"But then again I thought: 'No--how can I risk her contempt--her
misunderstanding? How can I deliberately strike such a blow to her
ignorant happiness?' So I determined to struggle along as best I could.
I've fought the damnable thing, Sophy--believe me or not as you will."

The cunning mixture of truth and falsehood in what he had been saying
lent it somehow an impression of extraordinary sincerity. The bald, dark
truth would not have carried such conviction to Sophy's heart. She cried
to him piteously, struggling to keep back the tears of anguished
compassion and renewed affection:

"Oh, don't say such things to me! I do believe you! I do! with all my
heart, with all my soul!"

Ferociously sarcastic, Chesney completed to himself her unconscious
quotation: "With all my mind, and with all my body." Why did she not
gush it _all_ over him? he demanded angrily to himself. What fools women
were after all! One had only to lie cleverly to them and forthwith they
fell flat in fits of hero-worship. Had he honoured her with the truth,
she would have turned on him in contempt. So little did he know her.

"Then, Daphne, perhaps Chance is a kindly god after all. This chance
collapse of mine has broken down barriers that I might never have
climbed by myself."

He had been sipping water off and on while he talked. It was nauseously
bitter to him, but with that fine instinct for thoroughness in his
acting, he had instinctively denied himself the flat champagne, which
would have been far more palatable to his tongue so rough with morphia.
It occurred to him also that gain might be made of this small sacrifice.
He