THE GAY COCKADE
was silhouetted against the light. Coming up to the side of her bed, he found her wide-eyed.
"Can't you sleep, my dear?"
"No."
"I don't want to give you anything."
"I don't want anything."
He sat down by the side of the bed. He had on his blue bathrobe, and the open neck showed his strong white throat. "My dear," he said, "I've been thinking of what you said this morning—about my lack of belief and the effect it has had on yours. And—I'm sorry."
"Being sorry doesn't help any, does it, Ridgeley?"
"I should like to think that you had your old faiths to—comfort you."
She had no answer for that, and presently he said, "Are you warm enough?" and brought an extra blanket, because the air was cool after the storm, and then he bent and kissed her forehead. "Shut your eyes and sleep if you can."
But of course she couldn't sleep. She lay there for hours, weighing what he had said to her against what Christopher had said. Each man was offering her something—Christopher, life at the expense of all her scruples. Ridgeley, the resurrection of burnt-out beliefs.
She shivered a bit under the blanket. It would
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