“That’s the most sensible thing that I’ve heard you say for a long time. You’ve just worn yourself out by the way you’ve stormed and raged. That’s why you’ve felt so sick. It isn’t worth while.” “No, I suppose not.” She looked up at him with eyes of gloomy tenderness, and opening her fingers one by one let him draw his hand away. “You’re going to Miss Gracey’s?” she said again. He averted his head with a quick movement of impatience. “Please tell me,” she pleaded, “I’m not bad tempered to-day.” “Well, yes, since you say so, I _am_ going there. But there’s no necessity to get excited about it. You know, Lupé, we’ve known each other a long, long time.” He paused, furtively watching her, on the alert to fly if she showed the symptoms of storm he knew so well. But she remained passive, almost apathetic. The thought crossed his mind that she must have been much sicker than Newbury had imagined, and a gust of pity for her stirred in him. He bent down and kissed her heavy hair. “You know,” he said gently, “when years roll by as they have with us changes come. But we’ll always be friends, won’t we, Lupé?” “I don’t know,” she said, “always is a long word. But I’ll always love you. That’s my punishment for my sins.” The clock chimed the half-hour and Jerry patted her again on the shoulder. It was as bad to have Lupé talk of her sins as it was to have her upbraid him with his. “I’ll see you again soon,” he said brightly, “but I must fly now. Take good care of yourself. Try and be more cheerful and go out more. Fresh air’s the thing for you.” When he had put on his coat in the hall he appeared at the open doorway and smiled a last good-by at her. She was sitting in the arm-chair in the same listless attitude. She nodded to him without smiling, and he was again struck by her unusual pallor and the darkness of her eyes. “She’s really been sick,” he said to himself as he ran down the steps, for he was late. “Poor Lupé! How hard she takes everything!” The next afternoon he was summoned from his office by a message that a woman wanted to see him in the hall outside. He went out wondering and found Pancha, the Mexican servant maid who had been in Mrs. Newbury’s service since her marriage and was in the secret of their liaison. After the fashion of her race the woman wore a black shawl over her head in place of a hat, and her face between its folds was drawn and pale. In a few broken sentences she told him that her mistress was desperately ill; something terrible had happened to her in the night. It was hard to grasp her meaning, for she spoke very poor English and Jerry had no Spanish, but he learned enough to know that Lupé was undoubtedly in a serious state. With the assurance that he would come as soon as he could he sent the woman away and went back into the office.