“Do you mean----”--whether it be through the weakness of his body or the rebellion of his spirit, the words are spoken almost below his breath--“that you have tied yourself for life by a childish promise to another child?” She draws up head and neck in a way that he feels to convey a dignified reproof. “There is no question of tying. I am doing it absolutely of my own free will. All my life I have known that for me there was to be no another man than Rupert; and all his life he has known that for him there was to be no other woman than me!” If any incredulity born of experience or observation invades the soul of Rupert’s brother man at this large assertion, no sign of it appears. He only waits blankly. “I am up to my neck in debt to them--to both of them!” goes on the poor girl, losing something of her collectedness, and torn between the knowledge that wisdom bids her leave the picture of her past and future without further touches; and the impossibility of not making it clear to her pale hearer, that love--lover-love--has no part in the scheme of her existence. “I am up to my neck in debt to them, and this is the first instalment I have ever been able to pay!” “I see.” She sighs, and throws out her arms as if tossing away something irksome. “Now let us talk of something else.” But a topic, thus ordered up, comes with a limp; and they get lamely enough through the next hour; the bulletins to Féodorovna are delivered with a punctuality unknown on happier yesterday. It is only gradually that comfort and fluency return to them, the knowledge of the one subject which has to be skirted round, making all others seem dangerous. The war-map hung at the foot of the bed proves their best ally. In moving its pins and flags, and making out, with the nearest approach to accuracy, the scene of Captain Greene’s exploit, they grow almost easy and almost garrulous. “What have you been talking about?” is the first question put by Miss Prince on the next scrupulously paid visit of report made by the amateur nurse. Féodorovna has managed to fidget her temperature up to a higher point than yesterday’s, and the orange of her face is patched with the flushings of fever. “About the war.” “What about the war?” “I have been moving the pins and flags on the war-map, in accordance with to-day’s news.” “You ought not to let him mention the war.” “I think it would be worse harm to forbid him. He would only brood the more over Captain Greene’s wounds.” “You seem to be much better informed on the subject than I am”--very fretfully. “What else have you talked about?” “Nothing much.” “I hope you have not told him that my temperature has gone up.” “No.” “Of course he asked?” “Of course.”