“If you mention her ,” cried Winifred, “I go straight out to Park Lane and I don’t come back.”

Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic that it moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as if he had said: “All right! I’m dead to the world!”

“You can have a room for the night,” she said; “your things are still here. Only Imogen is at home.”

He leaned back against the bed-rail. “Well, it’s in your hands,” and his own made a writhing movement. “I’ve been through it. You needn’t hit too hard⁠—it isn’t worth while. I’ve been frightened; I’ve been frightened, Freddie.”

That old pet name, disused for years and years, sent a shiver through Winifred.

“What am I to do with him?” she thought. “What in God’s name am I to do with him?”