gazing at Miss Wangle, wondering whether she were praying to God or to
the bishop. She laughed in a voice unrecognisable to herself. She
looked about the kitchen. Mr. Sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the
cigarette still attached to his bloodless lower lip, his arms hanging
limply down beside him. Mr. Cordal was looking about him as if dazed,
whilst Mr. Bolton was gazing at the glassless window-frames, as if
expecting some apparition to appear.

"It's a bomb next door," gasped Mrs. Craske-Morton, then remembering
her responsibilities, she caught Patricia's eye. There was appeal in
her glance.

"Come along, Gustave," cried Patricia in a voice that she still found
it difficult to recognise as her own.

Gustave, still on his knees, looked round and up at her with the eyes
of a dumb animal that knows it is about to be tortured.

"Gustave, get up and help with the tea," said Patricia.

A look of wonder crept into Gustave's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of
Patricia's voice. Slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the
capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body.

"There's brandy there," said Mrs. Craske-Morton, pointing to a
spirit-case she had brought down with her. "Here's the key."

Patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was
shaking violently.

"Mrs. Morton," she whispered, "you are splendid."

Mrs. Morton smiled wanly, and Patricia felt that in that moment she had
got to know the woman beneath the boarding-house keeper.

"Shall we put it in their tea?" enquired Patricia, holding the decanter
of brandy.

Mrs. Craske-Morton nodded.

"Now, Gustave!" cried Patricia, "make everybody drink tea."

Gustave looked at his own hands, and then down at his knees as if in
doubt as to whether he possessed the power of making them obey his
wishes.

Miss Wangle was still on her knees, the cook was appealing to the
Almighty with tiresome reiteration. Jenny had developed hysterics, and
was seated on the ground drumming with her heels upon the floor, Miss
Sikkum gazing at her as if she had been some phenomenon from another
world. Mr. Bolton had valiantly pulled himself together and was
endeavouring to persuade Mrs. Barnes to accept the various garments
that he was picking up from the floor. Her only acknowledgment of his
gallantry was to gaze at him with dull, unseeing eyes, and to wag her
head from side to side as if in repudiation of the ownership of what he
was strivi