“I might—just as well be dead. You can’t deny it. What is left me? No man could stand a face all gashed and sewed——” “You don’t _know_ it’s going to be all——” “Oh, yes—I do. . . . Don’t let Hal Jennings come in here—will you? I know it wasn’t his fault—we would never have left the dance if I hadn’t wanted some excitement—but he stands for—everything for which I’ve always passed up Greg and the only things that matter. The—only things—that matter! They all come under—love, Joy. And I passed Greg up—and now it’s too late.” An interlude while the nurse appeared and pleasantly hinted for Joy’s departure, which brought about a paroxysm beneath the bandages,—— “I want her to stay! She’s got to stay! It isn’t as if I were really sick! I wish I was, but you know I’m not! She’s got to stay! You can go to your lunch now, or something! You know the doctor said I could see people and be alone and things!” And when the nurse departed, whether on a search for the doctor or her lunch Joy did not know; “I hate her! Oh, my God, I wish I were dead!” It was at that awful moment while Joy racked her bursting brain for what to say that a knock came at the door. “Don’t let them in. It’s another nurse, or something. I’m not well enough to have a bath yet, and they keep talking about it.” The knock was repeated, and the door flung open. Greg was in the doorway; the boy in his face gone to manhood, his skin the color of untarnished silver. “They told me—_Félicie_!” and he crossed to the bed, his eyes travelling over Joy as if she were the little rug that was on the floor. “Félicie, my darling—thank God you’re here!” “Greg!” the perfect lips articulated. “Greg—how did you come here?—Go away!” “Go away! When I’ve done nothing else but aim for your side since I heard. . . . How are you feeling, dear? They told me downstairs that you would be quite all right in a short time——” “You don’t understand, Greg. They didn’t tell you—” the bandages quivered. Joy interposed. “Félicie, you really aren’t well enough—we’ll go now, and come back later——” “I want him to hear first! I want him to hear first! Greg,—my face is cut to pieces. I shall never be beautiful again. I can say I was now, because I’m—not—any more. I’ll be ugly—-horrible—do you hear? Now go away! I never—never want to see you again!” The brown eyes closed, the mouth relaxed, drawn down by little quivers of agony. For one minute of heart’s horror Greg stood silent above the bed. Over by the door Joy watched, breath caught in midair, as the boy suddenly went on his knees beside the bed and fell to stroking her prodigal hair. “Why—sweetheart!” he said, in a crooning voice—almost like that of a mother soothing a Bogey-terrified child—“what do you think a few little cuts on the face amount to? You couldn’t be anything but beautiful if you—tried! Your hair—it’s the most wonderful hair in the world! Your form—that in itself would make a beauty out of most girls! Your eyes, Félicie—and your—lips!”