"It is always indiscreet not to enjoy one's self," she said. And then there was silence for a moment, while she looked at him again. Suddenly she broke into a laugh,--a laugh almost hard in its tone. He glanced up to see what it meant. "Do you want to know what makes me laugh?" she said. "I am thinking how like all this is the old-fashioned tragedy, where all the _dramatis personæ_ are disposed of in the last act. We go over one by one, don't we? Soon there will be no one left to tell the tale. Even Colonel Tredennis and Richard show signs of their approaching doom. And you--some one has shown you your dagger, I think, and you know you cannot escape it." "I am the ghost," he answered; "the ghost who was disposed of before the tragedy began, and whose business it is to haunt the earth, and remind the rest of you that once I had blood in my veins too." He broke off suddenly and left his seat. The expression of his face had altogether changed. "We always talk in this strain," he exclaimed. "We are always jeering! Is there anything on earth, any suffering or human feeling, we could treat seriously? If there is, for God's sake let us speak of it just for one hour." She fixed her eyes on him, and there was a sad little smile in their depths. "Yes, you have seen your dagger," she said. "You have seen it. Poor Larry! Poor Larry!" She turned away and sat down, clasping her hands on her knee, and he saw that suddenly her lashes were wet, and thought that it was very like her that, though she had no tears for herself, she had them for him. "Don't be afraid that I will ask you any questions," she said. "I won't. You never asked me any. Perhaps words would not do you any good." "Nothing would do me any good just now," he answered. "Let it go at that. It mayn't be as bad as it seems just for the moment--such things seldom are. If it gets really worse, I suppose I shall find myself coming to you some day to make my plaint; but it's very good in you to look at me like that. And I was a fool to fancy I wanted to be serious. I don't, on the whole." "No, you were not a fool," she said. "There is no reason why _you_ should not be what you want. Laurence," with something like sudden determination in her tone, "there is something I want to say to you." "What is it?" he asked. "I have got into a bad habit lately," she said,--"a bad habit of thinking. When I lie awake at night"-- "Do you lie awake at night?" he interrupted. She turned her face a little away, as if she did not wish to meet his inquiring gaze. "Yes," she answered, after a pause. "I suppose it is because of this--habit. I can't help it; but it doesn't matter." "Oh," he exclaimed, "it does matter! You can't stand it." "Is there anything people 'cannot stand'?" she said. "If there is, I should like to try it." "You may well look as you do," he said.