"Not your fault," she said at last. "Not even _our_ fault. Ronnie--believe me--even if she did know that she--that she was very ill--she knew that you and I loved her, that we couldn't, either of us, do without her. She's--she's not going to die. Not with us, both of us, to nurse her--to look after her." "Alie--you--you believe there's a chance?" He rose from the table; and she saw that the remoteness had gone from his eyes. "Chance!" she smiled at him. "Chance! It's not a question of chance, man. We'll _make_ her get well." And with those words, Aliette knew that she had paid a little of her debt to them both. CHAPTER XXV 1 Miraculously, as it seemed to her comforted son, death stayed its hand from Julia Cavendish. For three days and nights of morphia she drowsed away the effects of that first hemorrhage. Heron Baynet, returning hot-foot to Harley Street on his secretary's telegram, insisted--despite the fact that he was a consultant--on ousting Dr. Redbank; on taking over the entire conduct of the case in person. A year ago the little keen scientist of the lined face, the fine forehead, and the shining eye-glasses had suspected, warned, begged his distinguished patient to let him radiograph her lungs;--mentioned the possibility of a diabetic complication--advised Switzerland. Now perhaps his advice, and the one slender chance of life it offered, would be taken. "How she tricked me!" he used to ruminate, looking down at the tired face on the smooth pillow. "How she fought me!" For although in his heart Sir Heron both pitied and admired this woman whose stubbornness and stamina had so long eluded his aid, it gave him a certain satisfaction, not altogether professional, to feel that she would now be completely in his power. Yet--would she be completely in his power? Already, on the fourth day of her illness, he sensed the stubbornness and the false stamina of stubbornness renewing themselves in her; already he perceived that his medical fight would be two-fold--against his patient as well as against her disease. "I suppose you're pleased," she managed to stammer. "You warned me that this might happen if I refused to take your advice." And after he had given her the morphia injection, "The less I have of that stuff, the better. If I'm going to die, I'd rather die with my brain clear." "You're not going to die yet awhile," retorted the specialist. "Not if you refrain from talking, lie perfectly still, and get away into the country as soon as you're fit to be moved." Julia smiled up at him without moving her head. "I congratulate you on your bedside manner, Sir Heron, but you needn't be professional with me. My case is hopeless. It always has been hopeless. You haven't forgotten our compact, I hope? You won't tell my son or my son's wife more than is absolutely necessary?" "Of course I won't tell your son," he humored her; "not if you'll consent to go to sleep."