Gradually I conceived a slight dislike to Blanche. She seemed colourless, lethargic, one of those people who without vitality themselves, sap that of others, and expect to be dragged through life by the energy of those with whom they live. It was perfectly obvious that fat and foolish Mrs. Robinson was the only person in the house with any energy whatever. Presently the whole family had influenza. Then for the first time I saw Blanche alone. She was laid up with the malady at the same time as her husband and mother-in-law. I went to her room, to see how she did, and found her in bed. She looked very small and young and wan, in an immense gilt four poster with a magnificent satin quilt. I reassured her as to her husband's condition, and then asked her a few questions about herself, and told her that she would soon be well again. She gave polite answers, but again I had that first impression of her that she was making an effort to keep her attention from wandering, that she felt no interest in what I was saying. "Have you an amusing book to pass the time?" I asked. She looked at a pile on the table near her. "Perhaps your eyes are too tired to read?" "No," she said, "I had forgotten they were there. I don't care for reading." Her eyes left the books and travelled back to the other end of the large ornate room, overfilled with richly gilt Empire furniture. I turned and followed her rapt gaze. There were half-a-dozen yellow chrysanthemums in a dull green jar on a Buhl chiffonier. The slanting November sunshine fell on them, and threw against the white wall a shadow of them. It was a shadow transfigured, intricate yet vague, mysterious, beautiful exceedingly. I should never have noticed it if she had not looked at it with such intentness. For a moment I saw it with her eyes. I was touched; I hardly knew why. All the apathy was gone from her face. There was passion in it. She looked entirely exhausted, and yet it was the first time I had seen her really alive. The sunshine went out suddenly, and she sighed. "You may get up to-morrow, and go downstairs," I said. "It is dull for you alone up here." "I like being here," she said. Was she, like so many women, "contrary?" Always opposing the suggestions of others, never willing to fall in with family arrangements. "Don't you want to see the goldfish?" I hazarded, speaking as if to a child. "He must be lonely now Mrs. Robinson is laid up. And who will give him his crumbs?" "No, I don't want to see him," she said passionately. "I never look at him if I can help it. Oh Dr. Giles, everyone seems to shut their eyes who comes into this house--everyone--but don't you see how dreadful it is to be a prisoner?" She looked at me with timid despairing eyes, which yet had a flicker of hope in them. I patted her hand gently, and found she still had a little fever.