Perhaps it would help, Elizabeth thought, if he knew that we lunched in France yesterday. Was it yesterday? Then this was Sunday, unless she had slept through a whole day. She thought she had been given an injection, but perhaps it had only been spoken of—she couldn’t be sure that she was not recollecting something in the future. Now they had gone out of the room, and she felt safe in opening her eyes again. The sun, through the gauze curtains, was immoderate, remorseless. Will it go on forever, this weather, she wondered irritably, with an effort putting her hand up to cover her eyes. Will it never rain, never be night, never be winter? If Greta would come, I could ask her to close the shutters. She felt helpless, victimized by the glare. Unwittingly, she had let herself in for all this. She had only meant to marry, settle down, have children—be safe, or a little bored; it came to the same thing. And here, instead, was all this derangement (she felt it, positively, to be his fault)—expense, journeys, illness, and now the sun glaring in at her. All this punishment simply because (she clasped her hand more tightly over her eyelids to shut out the sun) she had loved him. That was it. Because she had loved him.

She sighed. Her arm ached from being raised to her eyes.

“What is it, dear?” said Greta.

“The sun,” she explained. “Could you close the shutters?”

“But darling, it’s quite dark now.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes and found the room in darkness, except for a small lamp on the dressing table. Her hands were folded on the sheet. Greta was holding a tray.

“I can’t eat anything,” Elizabeth said immediately. The pain had gone from her head. “I feel better, but I can’t eat.”

“A piece of dry toast.”

“No.”

“Just tea, then.”

“Please,” she said, almost passionately. Why can’t anyone understand, she wondered. She didn’t quite know what they should understand—not merely that she should be let alone; rather, a sense of impending catastrophe that rendered absurdly insignificant all this taking of temperatures and bringing of tea. She had no way to describe to them the calamity that was about to befall, no way that would sufficiently prepare them for it. In that respect, it was like her dream.

When she next awoke, the light had returned, but dimly. She thought it must be dawn, but presently she heard Cyril leave for work. When Greta came in, Elizabeth was sitting up in bed. “It’s still so dark,” she said. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

“It’s been raining,” Greta told her. She sat down on the bed. “Do lie down. How do you feel?”

“Better,” she said. She knew she was no longer sick.

“You look terrible,” Greta said, and smiled, and kissed her. “You poor thing. I’ll get you some toast and tea.”