Betty laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder: “But, Moll--you are going home to America within the year!” She shook her head sadly: “I ought never to have come here--we are so poor--I have crippled their means--I have crippled father--I am crippling dear old Dick--and I am only a mediocrity after all. And now I am doomed.” “Hush, Moll! You mustn’t say these things.” The girl was seized with a violent attack of coughing. “Betty--I just wanted to be a genius--to be talked about. At heart I only wanted to be an artist in order to make a name. It was the name. Now--I have awaked to find--I am a woman. I--have--only a little while--a little, little life. I know it. Why fear it? Don’t shake your head, Betty, dear heart--the doctors broke it to me this morning.... But--I would just like to have--played--with a child----” Betty laughed softly: “Oho! mistress Molly,” said she--“so there’s a man--at last!” Betty turned up the girl’s face between her hands: “Who is it?” she asked. “Eustace Lovegood.” Betty bent down and kissed her: “You happy thing!” she said. “And how on earth did you come across Eustace Lovegood?” “We were a whole month in London before we came on here--Eustace and my cousin Dick took to each other--and--so--everything came about.... We knew nobody and were lonely--but Eustace made the sun shine--he helped us to Paris--he said we could live so much cheaper here----” “But, Moll--what became of Eustace--and--the sunshine?” “He’s in Paris. Has been in Paris for nearly a week.” “Oho! and you’ve been keeping the sunshine all to yourself, Moll! Tut tut!” Moll burst into tears. Betty stroked her cheek: “No, no, Moll; this will never do. Where’s the sunshine?” “He’s gone,” she sobbed. “Gone?” Moll nodded through her tears: “One of the girls at the studio said he was making me ridiculous. And--I told Eustace. And--yesterday morning he wrote to tell me the girl was right--and--and----” She was seized with a violent fit of coughing. Betty’s brows were knit: “What did you do, Moll?” “Nothing.” Betty drew the dainty head within her lap: “Thou fool!” she said in French--it seemed less harsh, whilst just as true; and, after a while, she added in English: “Thou poor mad fool, Moll!” Moll was sobbing miserably. Betty sat and soothed her, running her healing hand over the sobbing girl’s hair, and thinking: “Fancy!” she said at last--“fancy! Eustace Lovegood!” And she looked down at the fragile figure at her knees. She saw that the slender frame was grown more sadly slender--the thin hands more sadly transparent--the fire of the strange and awful disease was eating her blood. The girl was torn with the feverish energy of the devil of consumption, that whispered urgingly at her elbow to live her moment at the topmost pitch of energy or she would be too late. Betty was roused from her brooding by the shuffle of footsteps that ascended the stairs outside--and the sound of light-hearted laughter.