"Oh yes, it will," Colville protested. "I don't mind being up. I've been used to it all my life on the paper. It's just some temporary thing. It'll come all right." "Well, no matter," said Imogene. "It makes you ridiculous, going to all those silly places, and I'd rather give it up." The tears began to steal down her cheeks, and Colville sighed. It seemed to him that somebody or other was always crying. A man never quite gets used to the tearfulness of women. "Oh, don't mind it," he said. "If you wish me to go, I will go! Or die in the attempt," he added, with a smile. Imogene did not smile with him. "I don't wish you to go any more. It was a mistake in the first place, and from this out I will adapt myself to you." "And give up all your pleasures? Do you think I would let you do that? No, indeed! Neither in this nor in anything else. I will not cut off your young life in any way, Imogene--not shorten it or diminish it. If I thought I should do that, or you would try to do it for me, I should wish I had never seen you." "It isn't that. I know how good you are, and that you would do anything for me." "Well, then, why don't you go to these fandangoes alone? I can see that you have me on your mind all the time, when I'm with you." "Oughtn't I?" "Yes, up to a certain point, but not up to the point of spoiling your fun. I will drop in now and then, but I won't try to come to all of them, after this; you'll get along perfectly well with Mrs. Amsden, and I shall be safe from her for a while. That old lady has marked me for her prey: I can see it in her glittering eyeglass. I shall fall asleep some evening between dances, and then she will get it all out of me." Imogene still refused to smile. "No; I shall give it up. I don't think it's well, going so much without Mrs. Bowen. People will begin to talk." "Talk?" "Yes; they will begin to say that I had better stay with her a little more, if she isn't well." "Why, isn't Mrs. Bowen well?" asked Colville, with trepidation. "No; she's miserable. Haven't you noticed?" "She sees me so seldom now. I thought it was only her headaches----" "It's much more than that. She seems to be failing every way. The doctor has told her she ought to get away from Florence." Colville could not speak; Imogene went on. "She's always delicate, you know. And I feel that all that's keeping her here now is the news from home that I--we're waiting for." Colville got up. "This is ghastly! She mustn't do it!" "How can you help her doing it? If she thinks anything is right, she can't help doing it. Who could?" Colville thought to himself that he could have said; but he was silent. At the moment he was not equal to so much joke or so much truth; and Imogene went on-- "She'd be all the more strenuous about it if it were disagreeable, and rather than accept any relief from _me_ she would die." "Is she--unkind to you?" faltered Colville.