We wait—I cannot say how long. Two weeks, or three. At last: ''They come tomorrow,'' Richard tells me one night; and then, next morning: ''They come today. You remember?''
I have woken from terrible dreams.
''I cannot see them,'' I say. ''You must send them back. They must come another time.''
''Don''t be tiresome, Maud.''
He stands and dresses, fastening his collar, his neck-tie. His coat lies neatly on the bed.
''I won''t see them!'' I say.
''You will,'' he answers; ''for in seeing them you bring this thing to completion. You hate it here. Now is our time to leave.''
''I am too nervous.''
He does not answer. He turns, to raise a brush to his head. I lean and seize his coat—find the pocket, the bottle of drops—but he sees, comes quickly to me and plucks it from my hand.
''Oh, no,'' he says, as he does it. ''I won''t have you half in a dream—or risk you muddling the dose, and so spoiling everything! Oh, no. You must be quite clear in your mind.''
He returns the bottle to the pocket. When I reach again, he dodges.
''Let me have it,'' I say. ''Richard, let me have it. One drop only, I swear.'' My lips jump about the words. He shakes his head, wipes at the nap of the coat to remove the impression of my fingers.
''Not yet,'' he says. ''Be good. Work for it.''
''I cannot! I shan''t be calm, without a dose of it.''