“I’m over forty and ill. I suppose that is what you find attractive, that I am ill?” “I don’t think so. I hate hysterical women as a rule.” “Hysterical!” “With any form of nerve disease.” “Do you really think I am suffering from nerve disease? From the vapours?” I asked scornfully, thinking for the thousand and first time what a fool the man was. “You don’t occupy yourself?” “I’m one of the busiest women on God’s earth.” “I’ve never seen you doing anything, except sitting at her writing-table with two bone-dry pens set out and some blank paper. And you object to be questioned about your illness, or examined.” “I hate scientific doctoring. And then you have not inspired me with confidence, you are obsessed with one idea.” “I can’t help that. From the first you’ve reminded me of Margaret.” “Oh! damn Margaret Capel, and your infatuation for her! I’m sorry, but that’s the way I feel just now. I can’t escape from her, the whole place is full of her. And yet she hasn’t written a thing that will live. I sent to the London Library soon after I came and got all her books. I waded through the lot. Just epigram and paradox, a weak Bernard Shaw in petticoats.” “I never read a word she wrote,” he answered indifferently. “It was the woman herself....” “I am sure. Well, good-bye! I can’t talk any more tonight, I’m tired. Don’t send Dr. Lansdowne. If I want any one I’ll let you know.” Margaret came to me again that night when the house was quite silent and all the lights out except the red one from the fire. She sat in the easy-chair on the hearthrug, and for the first time I heard her speak. She was very young and feeble-looking, and I told her I was sorry I had been impatient and said “damn” about her. “But you are all over the place, you know. And I can’t write unless I am alone. I’m always solitary and never alone here; you haunt and obsess me. Can’t you go away? I don’t mean now. I am glad you are here now, and talking. Tell me about Dr. Kennedy. Did you care for him at all? Did you know he was in love with you?” “Peter Kennedy! No, I never thought about him at all, not until the end. Then he was very kind, or cruel. He did what I asked him. You know why I obsess you, don’t you? It used to be just the same with me when a subject was evolving. You are going to write my story; you will do it better in a way than I could have done it myself, although worse in another. I have left you all the material.” “Not a word.” “You haven’t found it yet. I put it together myself, the day Gabriel sent back my letters. You will have my diary and a few notes....” “Where?” “In a drawer in the writing-table. But it is only half there.... You will have to add to it.” “I see you quite well when I keep my eyes shut. If I open them the room sways and you are not there. Why should I write your life? I am no historian, only a novelist.”