6:27 P.M.

Barrett stood beside the bed, looking at Edith, wondering whether to wake her or not. The food was getting cold; but was it food she needed, or rest?

He moved to his own bed and sat with a groan. Crossing his left leg over his right, he touched the burn gingerly. He couldn't use his injured thumb. The cut should have been sutured. God knew how infected it was getting. He was afraid to remove the bandage and look.

He didn't see how he was going to work on the machine tonight. The least exertion brought on pain in his leg and lower back; just walking downstairs and up had been a strain. Grimacing, he eased off his left shoe. His feet were swelling too. He had to end it by tomorrow. He wasn't sure he could last beyond then.

The realization drained his waning confidence even further.

Noises had awakened him - the sound of something thumping on the rug. Slowly he had surfaced from a leaden sleep, thinking that he heard a door shut somewhere.

When he'd opened his eyes, Edith was gone.

For several groggy moments he had thought she was in the bathroom. Then, on the periphery of vision, he'd caught sight of something on the floor, and sat up, staring at the manuscript pages scattered across the rug. His gaze had shifted to the area beside the cabinet. Photographs were lying strewn about; a book had fallen.

Alarm had started rising in him then. Grabbing his cane, he'd stood, his attention caught by the brandy decanter on the table, the silver cup. Crossing to the cabinet, he'd looked down at the photographs, tensing as he saw what they were.

"Edith?" He'd turned toward the bathroom. "Edith, are you in there?" He'd limped to the bathroom door and knocked.

"Edith?"

There'd been no reply. He'd waited several moments before turning the knob; the door was unlocked.

She was gone.

He'd turned in dismay, hobbling to the door as quickly as he could, trying not to panic; but everything about the situation was ominous: his manuscript thrown to the floor, those photographs, the brandy decanter back on the table, and on top of all that, Edith's absence.

He'd hurried into the corridor and moved to Florence Tanner's room. Knocking, he'd waited for several seconds, then knocked again. When there'd been no reply, he'd opened the door, to see Miss Tanner heavily asleep on her bed. He'd backed out, shut the door, and moved to Fischer's room.

There'd been no one there, and he'd begun to panic then. He'd moved across the corridor and looked into the entry hall below, thinking he heard voices. Frowning, he'd limped to the stairs and started to descend as quickly as he could, teeth set against the pain in his leg. He'd told her not to do this! What was the matter with her?

He'd heard her voice as he crossed the entry hall, her tone unnatural as she said, "It's delicious!" With renewed alarm, he'd hastened his steps.

Then he'd reached the archway and was frozen there, staring into the great hall with a stunned expression, watching Edith, sweater open, bra unhooked, advancing on Fischer, breasts in her hands, ordering him to -

Barrett closed his eyes and pressed a hand across them. He'd never heard such language from her in their married life, never seen a hint of such behavior, not even to himself, much less to any other man. That she was probably repressed, he'd always known; their sex life had been necessarily constrained. But this -

He dropped his hand and looked at her again. The pain was returning, the distrust, the anger, the desire for retaliation of some kind. He struggled against it. He wanted to believe that the house had done it all to her, but he could not expunge the nagging doubt that somewhere deep within her lay the real cause of what had happened. Which, of course, explained his sudden animosity toward Fischer's words, he recognized.

He stood and crossed to her. They had to talk; he couldn't stand this doubting any longer. Reaching down, he touched her shoulder.

She awakened with a gasp, eyes flung open, legs retracting suddenly. Barrett tried to smile but couldn't. "I've brought your supper," he said.

"Supper." She spoke the word as though she'd never heard it in her life.

He nodded once. "Why don't you wash up?"

Edith looked around the room. Was she wondering where he'd put the photographs? he thought. He withdrew as she sat up, looking down at herself. He'd refastened her bra and closed her sweater with what buttons remained. Her right hand fluttered up the front of her sweater; then she stood and crossed to the bathroom.

Barrett limped to the octagonal table, picked up the boxed manuscript, and placed it on the library table against the wall.

With great effort he pulled the chair beside her bed over to the octagonal table and sat down. He eyed the lamb chops and vegetables on his plate and sighed. He should never have brought her to this house. It had been a dreadful mistake.

He turned as the bathroom door opened. Edith, her face washed and hair combed, walked over to the table and sat. She did not pick up her fork, but sat hunched over, gaze deflected, looking like a chastened girl. Barrett cleared his throat. "The food is cold," he said, "but. . . well, you need something."

He saw her dig her teeth into her lower lip as it began to tremble. After several moments she replied, "You don't have to be polite to me."

Barrett felt a sudden need to shout at her, fought it off. "You shouldn't have had any more of that brandy," he said. "I examined it before, and unless I'm mistaken, it contains more than fifty percent absinthe."

She looked up questioningly.

"An aphrodisiac."

She gazed at him in silence.

"As for the rest," he heard himself say, "there is a powerful influence in this house. I think it's begun to affect you." Why am I saying this? he wondered. Why am I absolving her?

Still, the look. Barrett felt a tremor in his stomach.

"Is that all?" she finally asked.

"All?"

"You've . . . solved the problem?" There was an undertone of resentful mortification in her voice.

Barrett tensed. "I'm trying to be rational."

"I see," she whispered.

"Would you rather I ranted? Called you names?" He pulled himself erect. "I'm trying, for the moment, to blame it on outside forces."

Edith said nothing.

"I know I haven't provided sufficient . . . physical love," he said with difficulty. "There is the polio damage, but I suppose that's not a full excuse. Maybe it's my mother's influence, maybe my total absorption in my work, my inability to - "

" Don't."

" I'm blaming it on that," he said determinedly. "On myself and on the house." There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped it off. "Kindly permit me to do so," he said. "If there are other factors involved . . .

we'll work them out later. After we've left this house."

He waited. Edith managed a nod.

"You should have told me what happened last night."

She looked up quickly.

"About your almost walking into the tarn."

She looked as though she were about to speak; but as he said no more, she changed her mind. "I didn't want to worry you,"

she said.

"I understand." He stood with a groan. "I think I'll rest my leg a bit before I go downstairs."

"You have to work tonight?"

"I have to finish by tomorrow."

She walked beside him to the bed and watched as he lay down, lifting his right leg with effort. He saw her trying not to show reaction to the swollen state of his ankles. "I'll be all right," he told her.

She stood beside the bed, looking at him worriedly. Finally she said, "Do you want me to leave, Lionel?"

He was quiet for a while before he answered. "Not if you'll stay with me all the time from now on."

"All right." She seemed to hold back, then, on impulse, sat beside him. "I know you can't forgive me now," she said. "I don't expect it - no, please don't speak. I know what I've done. I'd give twenty years of my life to undo it."

Her head dropped forward. "I don't know why I drank like that, except that I was nervous - frightened. I don't know why I went downstairs. I was conscious of what I was doing, yet, at the same time - "

She looked up, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. Just try not to hate me too much. I need you, Lionel. I love you. And I don't know what's happening to me." She could hardly speak now. "I just don't know what's happening to me."

"My dear." Despite the pain, Barrett sat up and put his arms around her, pressing his cheek to hers. "It's all right, all right. It will all pass after we've left this house." He turned his face to kiss her hair. "I love you, too. But then, you've always known that, haven't you?"

Edith clung to him, sobbing. It's going to be all right, he told himself. It had been the house. Everything would be resolved after they left.

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