CHAPTER XXIXAt first Jean thought there was no change in Char. She lay as still and flat as spilt milk beneath the peacock-coloured eiderdown. Nothing moved but her eyes. Jean felt them rest upon her with the grave accusing fixity of the dying. They asked her a question--and they went on asking it, while Jean moved about the room, pulled down the blinds, turned on the shaded bedside lamp, and sat at last where Char could see and hear her without effort.
'Well----?' Char whispered. There was a new force in the fragile emaciated face; Char's will had awakened and was stemming back, for a brief moment, physical disaster. 'What did Ian say to you?'
'A lot about you,' Jean murmured waveringly, 'and about Reggie and Beatrice. He'd met them first in London. They came up to meet him.'
'And they
