“It is very kind of you,” said Phœbe; “and you will not tell Clara?” “Never without your consent,” said Jeannie. “Come, let us go upstairs.” Dr. Maitland was in, and in ten minutes he was at Bolton Street. He was shown into the drawing-room, and Jeannie came down stairs to him. “She looks as if it were only one thing,” she said. “But don’t tell her. When you have seen her, come and tell me. She is upstairs.” After he had gone Jeannie went to the window and looked out. The full abundance of spring was in the air; the false death of winter was over, and all living things rejoiced in this renewal of the world. The grass of the lawn was starred with young crocuses, gnarled trees put out their sheaves of tender living leaves; all was as it had been twelve months ago. But in the lives of men no such renewal and repetition is admitted. The year passes, and they are a year nearer to the grim apparition of decay and death. It seemed to her a long time before the footstep of the doctor again sounded on the stairs. She faced round again into the room to meet him. “I have not told her,” he said, “as you desired. But there is no doubt--cancer.” “Would any operation give her a chance?” “A chance certainly, but a more than doubtful one. It is of five months’ growth at least.” “If she had come earlier this chance would have been better?” asked Jeannie. “Undoubtedly.” “Shall I tell her?” she asked. “She had better be told. The operation would be dangerous. If it is left, the end is certain, and probably--though one can never tell--not far distant. It is a case where she must decide whether to have the operation or not.” “Do you recommend it?” “Scarcely. If I was in the same condition I would not have it done.” Jeannie stood silent a moment. “Oh, poor thing, poor thing!” she said. “And I suppose I must tell her.” She put her hands before her eyes for a space, and then gave herself a little shake. “What a coward one is!” she said. “Thank you very much, Dr. Maitland. I will let you know about it.” “I will tell her if you wish, Miss Avesham,” said he. “No; I know her better than you,” said Jeannie. “Good-bye. I shall go upstairs at once to her.” Dr. Maitland shook hands with her; he felt an intense admiration for her. “It is only yourself who will accuse you of being a coward,” he said. CHAPTER XIX Jeannie tapped at the bed-room door, and Phœbe’s voice answered her quite cheerfully. “I was just coming down, Miss Avesham,” she said; “I should have come down before, but I just waited to collect myself. Now, please tell me truly. Dr. Maitland, I thought, looked very grave. Is that not so?” Jeannie could hardly believe that this brisk, cheerful woman was the same who had sat so limply and undecidedly in the drawing-room half an hour ago. What had caused this change of front she could not guess, for, evidently, Dr. Maitland had not been reassuring. But her own part was made easier for her.