“It seems odd,” she argued--“and yet, it isn’t. Because the fact is plain that I have nothing to live for. If I had any hope of ever being a ‘somebody’ or of doing anything really useful of course I should care for my life, but, to be quite honest with myself, I know I’m of no use to anyone, except to--_him_! And I’m getting a thousand a year and food and a home--a lovely home!--so why shouldn’t I trust him? If--in the end--his experiment kills me--as he seemed to think it might, just now--well!--one can only die once!--and so far as the indifferent folks at home know or believe, I’m dead already!” She laughed, and nestled her head cosily back on the silken sofa-cushions. “Oh, I’m all right, I’m sure! Whatever happens will be for the best. I’m certainly not afraid. And I feel so well!” She closed her eyes--then opened them again, like a child who has been told to go to sleep and who gives a mischievous bright glance at its nurse to show that it is wide awake. Moving one little slim foot after the other she looked disapprovingly at her shoes. “Ugly things!” she said. “They were bought in the Devonshire village--flat and easy to get about the house with--suitable for a housekeeping woman ‘of mature years!’ I don’t like them now! They don’t seem to suit my feet at all! If I had really ‘turned up my toes to the daisies’ when I swallowed that mysterious globule these shoes would not have added to the grace of my exit!” Amused at herself she let her thoughts wander as they would--and it was curious how they flew about like butterflies settling only on the brightest flowers of fancy. She had grown into a habit of never looking forward to anything--but just now she found herself keenly anticipating a promised trip to Davos during the winter, whither she was to accompany Dimitrius and his mother. She was a graceful skater--and a skating costume seemed suggested--why not send her measurements to Paris and get the latest? A pleasant vision of rich, royal blue cloth trimmed with dark fur flitted before her--then she fancied she could hear her father’s rasping voice remarking: “Choose something strong and serviceable--linsey-woolsey or stuff of that kind--your mother used to buy linsey-woolsey for her petticoats, and they _never_ wore out. You should get that sort of material--never mind how it _looks_!--only very young people go in for mere fashion!” She indulged in a soft little giggle of mirth at this reminiscence of “Pa,” and then with another stretch out of her body, and a sense of warmest, deepest comfort, she did fall asleep at last--a sleep as sweet and dreamless as that of a child. She was roused by a knocking at the door of the _entresol_, and sprang up, remembering she had locked it. Running to open it, she found the _femme-de-chambre_, Rose, standing outside.