smiling, he was bland; but Beresford was thankful when he rose to go, promising to come in on the morrow.
The Rain-Girl continued to monopolise Beresford's thoughts. What had become of her? Where was she now? Should he ever see her again? To all these questions there was no answer, at least no answer that satisfied him.
During those dreary days of convalescence he chafed under the "dire compulsion of infertile days." Outside were the trees, the birds, the sunlight, with an occasional sudden rush of rain, followed by the maddening scent of moist earth. He fumed and fretted at the restraint put upon him, not only by the doctor; but by his own physical weakness. He longed for the open road once more.
The monotony of it all, of being a hotel-invalid; it was intolerable. The events of the day, what were they? Breakfast, the arrival of the morning paper, a visit of ceremony from the landlord, lunch, the doctor and tea—and, finally, dinner. Sometimes the doctor would spend an hour with him in the evening.
The nurse was an infliction. In herself she was sufficient to discourage any one from falling ill. She had neither conversation nor ideas, she whistled as she moved about the room, or else she talked incessantly, now that her patient was convalescent. Sometimes she appeared to talk and whistle at the same time, so swift were the alternations.
The landlord—a man rich in that which made a
