Page:The Old Countess (1927).pdf/311

 tered, trying to think, as he held Jill's note. There'll be nothing to explain.'

Was it all to the good? He could think no longer—of Jill, or of Marthe. The heavy day pressed on him like a pall and he had not slept for an hour the night before. He went upstairs to their room, flung himself on his bed, and fell, almost at once, into a profound and exhausted slumber.