It only covered the first page. Tudor turned the sheet frowningly and replaced it in its envelope. "He always writes like that," said Avery. "Every week--all through the winter--just a sentence or two. I haven't written at all to him though I've tried--till I couldn't try any more." She spoke with a weariness so utter that it seemed to swamp all feeling. Tudor turned his frowning regard upon her. His eyes behind their glasses intently searched her face. "How does he get news of you?" he asked abruptly. "Through Mrs. Lorimer. She writes to him regularly, I believe,--either she or Jeanie. I suppose--presently--" Avery stopped, her eyes upon the fire, her hands tightly clasped before her. "Presently?" said Tudor. She turned her head slightly, without moving her eyes. "Presently there will have to be some--mutual arrangement made. But I can't see my way yet. I can't consider the future at all. I feel as if night were falling. Perhaps--for me--there is no future." "May I take your pulse?" said Tudor. She gave him her hand in the same tired fashion. He took it gravely, feeling her pulse, his eyes upon her face. "Have you no relations of your own?" he asked her suddenly. She shook her head. "No one near. My parents were both only children." "And no friends?" he said. "Only Mrs. Lorimer. I lost sight of people when I married. And then--" Avery halted momentarily "after my baby girl died, for a long time I didn't seem to care for making new friends." "Ah!" said Tudor, his tone unwontedly gentle. "You will soon have another child to care for now." She made a slight gesture as of protest. "Do you know I can't picture it? I do not feel that it will be so. I believe one of us--or both--will die." She spoke calmly, so calmly that even Tudor, with all his experience, was momentarily shocked. "Avery!" he said sharply. "You are morbid!" She looked at him then with her tired eyes. "Am I?" she said. "I really don't feel particularly sad--only worn out. When anyone has been burnt--badly burnt--it destroys the nerve tissues, doesn't it? They don't suffer after that has happened. I think that is my case." "You will suffer," said Tudor. He spoke brutally; he wanted to rouse her from her lethargy, to pierce somehow that dreadful calm. But he failed; she only faintly smiled. "I can bear bodily suffering," she said, "particularly if it leads to freedom and peace." He got up as if it were he who had been pierced. "You won't die!" he said harshly. "I won't let you die!" Her eyes went back to the fire, as if attracted thereto irresistibly. "Most of me died last August," she said in a low voice. "You are wrong!" He stood over her almost threateningly. "When you hold your child in your arms you will see how wrong. Tell me, when is your husband coming back to you?" That reached her. She looked up at him with a quick hunted look. "Never!" she said.