This had been the experience of the sister of the German officer, as of the wife of the brother of the American lady. The same thing happening to thousands everywhere. The philanthropic Wolfenbuchel and the benevolent Krauss had made of the stony Via Dolorosa by which Womanhood attains maternity—a path of soft green turf bordered with fragrant lilies and bestrewn with the perfumed petals of the rose. She ended. Saxham had kept his keen blue eyes steadily upon her during the eloquent recital. Not a hair of his black brows had twitched, not a muscle of his pale face had moved—betraying his urgent inclination to smile. His fine hand, lying upon the blotter near the small black case-book, might have been carved out of ancient Spanish ivory, or yellow-white lava. Now he said: "There is nothing new nor marvellous about the ’Dreams’ method. It is—persistent narcosis obtained from the subcutaneous injections of morphine with the hydrobromide of hyoscine, another alkaloid obtained from henbane. I have visited not only the Institute at Berlin, but the Rottburg Fraüenklinik—and an establishment of the same type in Paris, and another in Brussels. It is a fact that when a patient awakens from the anæsthesia there is no recollection of anything that has taken place subsequently to the injection of the drug." "There has been no pain. Absolutely—none whatever!" She spoke with a little, joyful catch in her breath. "Pardon me," said Saxham. "You labour under a delusion which the rose-coloured pamphlet was not written to dispel. There must have been pain—if there has been childbirth. Perhaps there has been overwhelming pain. Pain manifested by outcries and convulsions—violent struggles—subdued by the attendants and nurses—for the friends and relatives of the patient are rigidly excluded—the patient enters and leaves the Home alone. Two or three days may have vanished in that vacuum which has been created in her memory. Days in which she has been lying—it may be—strapped to the bed in the private ward of the nursing home—her purple, congested face and staring eyes concealed by a mask of wetted linen—her agonies only witnessed by paid attendants whose interests are best served by denial or concealment—supposing anything to have gone wrong?" The relentless surgeon’s hand had torn away the painted curtain. Margot contemplated the grim truth in silence for a moment. Then she found words: "But nothing ever _does_ go wrong. The pink pamphlet says so. My American friend’s sister-in-law says so.... Thousands of women have had children under scopolo—what’s its name? And none of them felt pain—not the slightest. And in every case—in _every_ case—there was the baby when they woke up!" The sweet bird-voice quivered. She had entered the room so full of hope and enthusiasm, and this man with the piercing eyes and the brusque, direct manner was putting things before her in a way that dashed and damped. Hear him now: