And the other, after watching me for a moment more, went on: “You think I’m revengeful, don’t you? Well, I used to reproach myself with this, and I tried to fight it down; but the time comes when you want people to pay for what they take from you. Let me tell you something that I never told to anyone, that I never expected to tell. You see me drinking and going to the devil; you hear me talking the care-free talk of my world, but in the beginning I was really in love with Douglas van Tuiver, and I wanted his child. I wanted it so that it was an ache to me. And yet, what chance did I have? I’d have been the joke of his set for ever if I’d breathed it; I’d have been laughed out of the town. I even tried at one time to trap him--to get his child in spite of him, but I found that the surgeons had cut me up, and I could never have a child. So I have to make the best of it--I have to agree with my friends that it’s a good thing, it saves me trouble! But _she_ comes along, and she has what I wanted, and all the world thinks it wonderful and sublime. She’s a beautiful young mother! What’s she ever done in her life that she has everything, and I go without? You may spend your time shedding tears over her and what may happen to her but for my part, I say this--let her take her chances! Let her take her chances with the other women in the world--the women she’s too good and too pure to know anything about!” 10. I came out of Claire’s house, sick with horror. Not since the time when I had read my poor nephew’s letter had I been so shaken. Why had I not thought long ago of questioning Claire about these matters. How could I have left Sylvia all this time exposed to peril? The greatest danger was to her child at the time of birth. I figured up, according to the last letter I had received; there was about ten days yet, and so I felt some relief. I thought first of sending a telegram, but reflected that it would be difficult, not merely to tell her what to do in a telegram, but to explain to her afterwards why I had chosen this extraordinary method. I recollected that in her last letter she had mentioned the name of the surgeon who was coming from New York to attend her during her confinement. Obviously the thing for me to do was to see this surgeon. “Well, madame?” he said, when I was seated in his inner office. He was a tall, elderly man, immaculately groomed, and formal and precise in his manner. “Dr. Overton,” I began, “my friend, Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver writes me that you are going to Florida shortly.” “That is correct,” he said. “I have come to see you about a delicate matter. I presume I need hardly say that I am relying upon the seal of professional secrecy.” I saw his gaze become suddenly fixed. “Certainly, madame,” he said. “I am taking this course because Mrs. van Tuiver is a very dear friend of mine, and I am concerned about her welfare. It has recently come to my knowledge that she has become exposed to infection by a venereal disease.”