ain. Last night I told you that I'd come to you from the
ends of the world, if you were ill. Tell me what's the matter, Eric."

She pulled a chair to the bed and gave him her hand, which he covered
with kisses.

"I'm broken up! I'm sorry; you can despise me, if you like," he cried.
"I can't afford to lose you, Babs: I love you too much."

The tears were standing in his eyes, and the sight steadied her.
Pillowing his head on her breast, she ran her fingers through his hair,
caressing and soothing him like a child.

"_I've_ done this. . . . You must forgive me, Eric," she whispered. "I
didn't see what I was doing; until quite lately I didn't see that you
cared for me at all--not to matter, I mean--you were always sweet to me,
of course. If I'd known how I was hurting you . . . Won't you wait,
Eric? I must let you go now, if you insist; I'm nerved up to it. . . .
But is it worth it?"

Eric thought over the change that had come upon them since Christmas.

"No. I can't afford it," he answered wearily.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. Was the kiss rather mechanical?
Eric lay with his eyes shut, trying to analyze the double change. Was a
nervous break-down always like this? Barbara was stroking his head
gently; she had kissed him compassionately, lovingly, but he had fancied
a change in her, as though she, too, realized the completeness of his
subjugation.

"See if you can't sleep, Eric," she whispered, as he opened twitching
lids to take stock of her.

Pity, or some kind of maternal love, then, survived his defeat. . . .

* * * * *

"_Average man is a match for average woman, eighteen chances to
eighteen, but zero always turns up in woman's favour. Man, being a
philosopher and far less interested in woman (who is an incident)
than woman is interested in him (who is her life), would cheerfully
go on playing with the odds always slightly against him, if he had a
clear idea of the value and significance of zero. But zero is woman
inexplicable--something fantastically loyal or shiveringly
perfidious, savagely cruel or quixotically self-sacrificing,
something that is primitive, non-moral and resolved to win at all
costs. In the sex-gamble, zero is more than a thirty-six to one
chance; it is Poushkin's DAME DE PIQUE and turns up thirty-six times
to one. And man shews his indifference or his greatness of soul by
continuing to play,