And there it was, so calmly settled by this girl with the blue eyes and the reddish hair and the brown, freckled face. She did everything so simply and directly; she was an angel rushing in where fools feared to tread. I hoped, without really believing, that she would succeed. III I wish I had seen them at work together. Circumstances prevented me, and it is only from Taplow that I know anything of what happened. He told me that June used to come two or three times a week and stay for the whole day, alternating the typing with fierce bouts of tennis. _Was_ she succeeding? There came an evening in early April when she banged at my door and demanded an interview. "I want to talk to you about lots of things," she said, settling herself in my bachelor-armchair and accepting a cigarette. The first thing, apparently, was Karelsky's approaching visit to England. Had I heard about it? I hadn't. "He's due to arrive next week. There's going to be an international medical conference, or something of the sort, and he's one of the star turns.... Another is Hermann, the spinal fellow--you've heard of him, haven't you? Father's going to consult him, and if there's the least chance of a cure by operation, he says he'll take the risk." She went on: "I suppose I'm getting to know my father for really the first time in my life. It's queer ... I keep on thinking--'What sort of a man _are_ you?'--and I can't _quite_ make up my mind.... But I like him. He's _game_." She gave me a sharp upward glance and added: "Perhaps you think I'm heartless to be able to talk about him so calmly? Most people seem to imagine I ought to be coddling and making a great fuss over him ... I _couldn't_ do it--I'm not made that way. And neither is he." That was as much as I ever heard her say about him. I don't think she would have said even that but for an unwillingness to drive too abruptly to the main object of her visit, which was to ask me questions about Terry. And the first question, when at last she came to it, was: "What's happened in his past life to make him like--like _this_?" "Like what?" She paused for a short while and then said: "It's as if he's had one blow after another until he doesn't care any more about anything--that's my impression. He does what I ask him to do, but still he doesn't care." "And you want him to care?" "Of course I do. And you can help me--you've known him for years. Tell me what's happened to him. What's been the real cause of his breakdown?" I gave her as carefully as I could a summary of all that I could possibly tell her. I stressed the hard work that he had been doing, and Karelsky's shabby treatment of him, and the shock of hearing about her father's accident. And when I had got to the end, she said quietly: "Is that all?" "I think it is." "Won't you tell me the rest?" "The rest? I don't know that there is any rest."