He waved her away with a gesture that would have been violent if it could. She tried to take his pen and paper from him, and he laid his thin hands out over the sheets. The sweat stood in big drops between the veins of his hands; it streamed from his forehead. "Wait just a little longer, till you're well," she pleaded. "For God's sake, darling," he whispered hoarsely, "leave me, go away." She went. In her own room her work stood unfinished on the table where she had left it, months ago. She pushed it away in anger. She hated the sight of it. She sat watching the clock for the moments when she would have to go to him with his medicine. She thought how right they had been after all. Nina and Jane and Tanqueray, when they spoke of the cruelty of genius. It had no mercy and no pity. It had taken its toll from all of them. It was taking its toll from Owen now, to the last drop of his blood, to the last torturing breath. His life was nothing to it. She went to him silently every hour to give him food or medicine or to take his temperature. She recorded on her chart heat mounting to fever, and a pulse staggering in its awful haste. He was submissive as long as she was silent, but at a word his thin hand waved in its agonized gesture. Once he kissed her hands that gave him his drink. "Poor little thing," he said, "it's so frightened--always was. Never mind--It'll soon be over--only--don't come again" (he had to whisper it), "if you don't mind--till I ring." She sat listening then for his bell. Rose came and stayed with her a little while. She wanted to know what the Doctor had said to-day. "He says he must choose between his genius and his life. And it's I who have to choose. If he goes on he'll kill himself. If I stop him I shall kill him. What am I to do?" Rose had her own opinion of the dilemma, and no great opinion of the Doctor. "Do nothin'," she said, and pondered on it. "Look at it sensible. You may depend upon it 'e's found somethin' 'e's got to do. 'E's set 'is 'eart on finishin' it. Don't you cross 'im. I don't believe in crossin' them when they're set." "And if he dies, Rose? If he dies?" "'E dies 'is way--not yours." It was the wisdom of renunciation and repression; but Laura felt that it was right. Her hour struck and she went up to Owen. He was lying back now with his eyes closed and his lips parted. Because of its peace his face was like the face of the dead. But his lips were hot under hers and his cheek was fire to her touch. She put her finger on his pulse and he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "It's finished," he said. "You can take it away now." She gathered up the loose sheets and laid them in a drawer in his desk. The poem once finished he was indifferent to its disposal. His eyes followed her, they rested on her without noting her movements. They drew her as she came towards him again. "Forgive me," he said. "It was too strong for me."