The effort in rising cost her trouble and as she moved toward the
machine her face went white, and she would have fallen had not Markham
caught her by the arm.

"Oh, I'm all right," she faltered. But he led her up the hill to the
cabin where he put her on a couch and gave her some whisky and water.

"Here, drink this," he said gently. "It will do you good."

She glanced around the room at the piles of canvases against the wall,
at the tin coffee pot on the wooden table, and then back at his
unshorn face and shock of disorderly hair, the color rising slowly to
her cheeks. But she obeyed him, and drank what remained in the glass
without question, sinking back upon the pillow, her lips firmly
compressed, her gaze upon the ceiling.

"I--I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble," she murmured.

"Oh, that's all right," he muttered. "You got a bad shock. But there
are no bones broken. You'll be all right soon. Go to sleep if you
can."

She tried to sit up, thought better of it and lay back again with eyes
closed, while Markham moved on tiptoe around the room putting things
to rights, all the while swearing silently. What in the name of all
that was unpleasant did this philandering little idiot mean by trying
to destroy herself on the front lawn of his holiday house? Surely the
world was big enough, the air broad enough. He glanced at her for a
moment, then crept over on tip-toe and peered at her secretively. He
straightened and scratched his head, fumbling for his pipe, puzzled.