pool--and Francey's arms about his shoulders, Francey's mouth on his,
giving him kiss for kiss.

Ghosts everywhere--and no living soul who cared now whether he failed
or won through, whether he suffered or was satisfied. Only Cosgrave
perhaps--poor, unlucky little Cosgrave--always hunting for
happiness--breaking himself against life--going to the dogs for the
sake of a rotten woman.

He fell forward with his face hidden in his arms and lay there shaken
by gusts of fever. They weakened gradually, and he fell asleep. And
in his sleep his father drew himself up suddenly, showing his terrible
white face, and clutched at little Robert Stonehouse, who skirted him
and ran screaming down the dark stairs.

"You can't--you can't--you're dead. I'm grown up--I'm free--I'm not
like you--you can't--you can't----"

But the next morning he was himself again, sure and cool-headed and
cool-hearted. He did not believe that he had suffered or in the
recurrence of that terror.




III

1

Probably she had expected him. It must have seemed to her, so