She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through her, the wild longing to fight. It was damned rough--four months! A year, six months even, was a long time. The pain grew acute, different from anything she had felt before. "Good Lord! what am I maundering on about? Four months--I'll go out with a fizzle like a firework. Why the devil doesn't Dick come?--or Liz--or somebody? What do they leave me alone like this for?" She dragged at the bell-rope. * * * * * He came in, white and blear-eyed. "Whatever have you been doing all this time?" she began angrily. "I've been chatting with the doctor." He was pretending to read a newspaper: there was something funny about his voice. "It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you don't get colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit again"--a quick, crackling noise--he had gripped the newspaper in his fist. She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would never have thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good sort, after all. But--she didn't know why--she broke out furiously: "You infernal liar!--I know. I shall be done for by the end of February--ha! ha!" Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's relief. Then she said quietly: "There--I've made an idiot of myself; but" (weakly) "I didn't know--I didn't know--I thought it was different." He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to her and put his hands round her cheeks. "No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to drink. I feel bad." He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently. "You clumsy fool!" she exclaimed. She drank off the wine at a gulp. "Daisy," he began. She was staring stonily at the empty glass. "Daisy," he repeated. She tapped her toe against the fender-rail. At this sign, he went on: "How did you know?" "I sent Liz to listen," she answered mechanically. He looked about him, helpless. "I think I'll smoke," he said feebly. She made no answer. "Here, put the glass down," she said. He obeyed. He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing dense clouds of smoke. And, for a long while, neither spoke. "Is that doctor a good man?" "I don't know. People say so," he answered. Two Songs By John Davidson I--London Athwart the sky a lowly sigh From west to east the sweet wind carried; The sun stood still on Primrose Hill; His light in all the city tarried: The clouds on viewless columns bloomed Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.