“How long have you been so ill?” he asked, in a subdued voice. “Is there no cure?” “None,” she answered resignedly. “It is over two years since I first contracted the complaint; but since last month I have rapidly grown worse. My husband’s consulting physician, Sir Dighton Forbes, has made me consent to undergo an operation on the 1st of December, although I do not at all like the idea of being butchered to satisfy the doctors.” “Perhaps it may cure you,” suggested Karne, optimistically. “You must not lose hope.” But Mrs. Neville Williams shook her head; she was convinced that she was doomed. “Why do you bother yourself about society--now?” he asked, after a moment’s silence. “What is the use? If you really believe that your last days have come, why not spend the time that remains to you in peace and quietness?” She gave a gesture of dissent. “What you call peace and quietness would be misery to me. It would give me too much time to think. I should go mad with thinking. Besides, I am loth to leave the good things of this world. To wear magnificent jewels, to be the best-dressed woman in the room, the cynosure of all eyes--it’s the breath of life to me--the breath of life! When I can no longer shine in society, I’ll die. I am not one of those _devil-sick-was-he-devil-a-monk-would-be_ kind of persons. I’ll die ‘game.’ But do not let us talk about it any more; it is an unpleasant subject.” Herbert rose and buttoned his overcoat. “I must be going,” he said. “But there is one thing I wanted to say. Did it never occur to you, in all the years of your silence, that I, too, might have my hopes and ambitions?” “I wondered what you were doing,” she answered evasively. “If I had met you sooner, I would have told you before. I have all but met you so many times since Celia Franks made her _début_. By-the-by, Karne, take my advice; look after your sister well. She has a lovely face--a face that will turn men’s heads. If you want her to be happy--quietly happy in your own way--take her off the boards.” He looked at her in approval. “You are right,” he said, half surprised at such counsel coming from her. “Celia only went on the stage in deference to Guy Haviland’s wishes. She has promised me that, however great her success, she will accept no further theatrical engagements. Do you feel ill?” he added suddenly, as she pressed her hands against her forehead. “I am afraid I have tired you with so much talking.” “It is the pain,” she explained, when the spasm had passed. “It comes and goes. Last night I thought I should have had to leave the theatre. I shall lie down this afternoon. You will come and see me again?” “I am going back to Durlston at the end of the week,” he replied, holding out his hand. “But I will try to come again before I go.” Then, after an expression of sympathy, he left; and, taking his place in the elevator, descended into the damp atmosphere of the streets once more.