The green was as bright as day in the moonlight and Frank watched Willy walking, his shoulders thrown back. He sighed; an undefinable, but haunting melancholy hung about Willy; he often impressed Frank as an old book--a book whose text is trite--which no one will read, and which yet continues to make its mute appeal; a something that has always missed its way, that can hardly be said to be an adequate thing to offer for any man's money, that will soon disappear somehow out of all sight and reckoning. XV A few days after he got a letter from Lizzie, saying she was alone and ill, and asking him to come and see her. He took the next train to Brighton. The land-lady's daughter, a girl of about twelve, opened the door to him. “How is Miss Baker? Is she any better?” “Please, sir, she is not at all well, she has cold shivers; and mother went away yesterday.” “And who looks after Miss Baker?” “Please, sir, I do.” “You do! Is there no one else in the house?” “No, sir.” “Is Miss Baker in bed?” “No, sir. She said she would get up a little while this afternoon, 'cause she said she thought you was coming.” “Go and tell her I am here.” “Please, sir, she said you was to go upstairs--the back room on the second floor, please.” “Come in.” “I am so sorry you are ill, Lizzie. What is the matter?” “I don't know; I think I caught a severe chill. I stayed out very late on the beach.” “But why are you crying? Do tell me. Can I do anything?” “No no. What does it matter whether I laugh or cry? Nothing matters now. I don't care what becomes of me.” “A pretty girl like you; nonsense! Some one rich and grand will fall in love with you, and give you everything you want.” “I don't want any one to fall in love with me; I am done for--don't care what becomes of me.” “Do tell me about it. Have you heard anything further about him? Do tell me; don't cry like that.” “No, no, leave me, leave me! I am so miserable. I don't know why I wrote to you. I hope I shall die.” “It is very lucky you did write to me, for you are clearly very ill. What is the matter?” “I don't know; I can't get warm. This room is very cold--don't you think so?” “Cold? No.” “I feel cold; my throat is very bad--perhaps I shall be better in the morning.” “You must see a doctor.” “Oh, no! I don't want to see a doctor.” “You must see a doctor.” “No, no, I beg of you. I only wrote to you because I was feeling so miserable.” Lizzie stood between him and the door, imploring him not to fetch a doctor, but to go away at once, and to tell no one she had written to him, or that he had been to see her. “Nothing matters now--I am ruined--I don't care what becomes of me.” He marvelled; but soon all considerations were swept away in anxiety for her bodily health; and having extorted a promise from her that she would not leave the room until he came back, he rushed to the nearest chemist and hence to the doctor.