"Oh yes, it is," she whispered with a sad smile. "Years too late, Pierre. Besides, I'm not the sort of woman who could bear the burden of an illicit love-affair. I should be afraid of it. I did wrong in thrusting myself into your life again. I had no courage then. I have no courage now." When she spoke thus, he rose from his chair and kneeling beside her drew her lips down to meet his own. "Are you sure you have no courage?" he asked breathlessly. "Mary, we are still young. We could still be happy together. In my life there has been no other woman but you. Have you loved any one as you loved me, as you still love me at this moment while I hold you closer to my heart than I have ever held you? Come away with me, Mary. Come away with me to-night, now. Leave behind you all this." While Pierre was talking, Mary felt that she was nothing more than a doll that a child was vainly trying to wake to life. A child? "Hush! Did you hear somebody calling?" she asked in sudden apprehension. "Come to the open window. The air in this room is hot. Come and look at the May moon, _ma bien aimée_". She let him draw her arm through his and lead her to the window, where they stood a while in the lilac-scented hush of what could scarcely be imagined a London night. "The world is so much bigger than this room," he proclaimed. "I need no lover to tell me that," she whispered. How wonderful it would be to go right away ... right away.... She allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. Moonlight and the perfume of lilac and a tale of green islands murmured in her ear held her entranced. Bewitched by the imagination of love enduring forever, she looked up at him. Her hands were upon his shoulders in appeal, and then there was a tap on the door. Mary sprang away from Pierre and stood quivering like a sapling released from the woodcutter's grasp. "What is it, nurse?" "If you please, ma'am, I shan't rest till you've had a look at Master Richard. After he came back from school he said he had a headache, but I didn't like to worry you without cause. Only now he says his throat is so bad, and really I don't like the looks of him at all." Mary did not wait to make any apologies to Pierre, but hurried upstairs to where in his little room, of which he was so proud, her eldest son was tossing upon his bed and muttering rapid nonsense with fever's thick and troubled accents. "Dearest boy, is your throat very bad? Let me look at your chest. Turn the gas higher, nurse. I want to see if there's any rash. Give me your hand, Richard. Lie still, my darling, a minute. Mother wants to feel your pulse. Nurse, ring for Pinkney and tell her to go at once for Dr. Marlow." Nurse hurried away. "Is your throat very bad, Richard darling?" "Worse and worse," the little boy whispered.