My companion stared at me a moment. “Do you mean to say her eyesight’s going?” “Heaven forbid! In that case how could she take life as she does?” “How _does_ she take life? That’s the question!” He sat there bewilderedly brooding; the tears had come into his eyes; they reminded me of those I had seen in Flora’s the day I risked my inquiry. The question he had asked was one that to my own satisfaction I was ready to answer, but I hesitated to let him hear as yet all that my reflections had suggested. I was indeed privately astonished at their ingenuity. For the present I only rejoined that it struck me she was playing a particular game; at which he went on as if he hadn’t heard me, suddenly haunted with a fear, lost in the dark possibility I had opened up: “Do you mean there’s a danger of anything very bad?” “My dear fellow, you must ask her oculist.” “Who in the world _is_ her oculist?” “I haven’t a conception. But we mustn’t get too excited. My impression would be that she has only to observe a few ordinary rules, to exercise a little common sense.” Dawling jumped at this. “I see--to stick to the pince-nez.” “To follow to the letter her oculist’s prescription, whatever it is and at whatever cost to her prettiness. It’s not a thing to be trifled with.” “Upon my honour it _shan’t_ be trifled with!” he roundly declared; and he adjusted himself to his position again as if we had quite settled the business. After a considerable interval, while I botched away, he suddenly said: “Did they make a great difference?” “A great difference?” “Those things she had put on.” “Oh, the glasses--in her beauty? She looked queer of course, but it was partly because one was unaccustomed. There are women who look charming in nippers. What, at any rate, if she does look queer? She must be mad not to accept that alternative.” “She _is_ mad,” said Geoffrey Dawling. “Mad to refuse you, I grant. Besides,” I went on, “the pince-nez, which was a large and peculiar one, was all awry: she had half pulled it off, but it continued to stick, and she was crimson, she was angry.” “It must have been horrible!” my companion murmured. “It _was_ horrible. But it’s still more horrible to defy all warnings; it’s still more horrible to be landed in--” Without saying in what I disgustedly shrugged my shoulders. After a glance at me Dawling jerked round. “Then you do believe that she may be?” I hesitated. “The thing would be to make _her_ believe it. She only needs a good scare.” “But if that fellow is shocked at the precautions she does take?” “Oh, who knows?” I rejoined with small sincerity. “I don’t suppose Iffield is absolutely a brute.” “I would take her with leather blinders, like a shying mare!” cried Geoffrey Dawling.