But this has nothing to do with me and Dr. Peter Kennedy, and the curious position between us. For a long time after I began to get well it seemed we were like two wary wrestlers, watching for a hold. Only that sometimes he seemed to drop all reserves, to make an extraordinary _rapprochement_. I might flush, call myself a fool, remember my age, but at these times it would really appear as if Ella had some reason in her madness, as if he had some personal interest in me. At these times I found him nervous, excitable, utterly unlike his professional self. As for me I had to preserve my equanimity, ignore or rebuff without disturbing my equilibrium. I was fully employed in nursing my new-found strength, swallowing perpetually milk and eggs, lying for hours on an invalid carriage amid the fading gorse, reconstructing, rebuilding, making vows. I had been granted a respite, if not a reprieve, and had to prove my worthiness. The desire for work grew irresistible. When I asked for leave he combated me, combated me strenuously. “You are not strong enough, not nearly strong enough. You have built up no reserve. You must put on another stone at least before you can consider yourself out of the wood.” “I won’t begin anything new, but that story, the story I wrote in water....” I watched him when I said this. I saw his colour rise and his lips tremble. “Oh, yes. I had forgotten about that.” But I saw he had not forgotten. “You never saw your midnight visitor again?”—he asked me with an attempt at carelessness—“Margaret Capel. Do you remember, in the early days of your illness how often you spoke of her, how she haunted you?” He spoke lightly, but there was anxiety in his voice, and Fear ... was it Fear I saw in his eyes, or indecision? “Since you have begun to get better you have never mentioned her name. You were going to write her life ...” he went on. “And death,” I answered to see what he would say. We were feinting now, getting closer. “You know she died of heart disease,” he asked quickly. “There was an inquest....” “I saw her die,” I answered, not very coolly or conclusively. His face was very strange and haggard, and I felt sorry for him. “How strange and vivid dreams can be. Morphia dreams especially,” he replied, rather questioningly than assertively. “I thought you agreed mine were not dreams?” “Did I? When was that?” “When you brought me their letters, told me I was foredoomed to write her story. Hers and his. I can’t think why you did.” “Did I say that?” “More than once. I suppose you thought I was not going to get better.” He did not answer that except with his rising colour and confusion, and I saw now I had hit upon the truth. “I wonder you gave me the iodide,” I said thoughtfully. “I suppose now you think me capable of every crime in the calendar?” That brought us to close quarters, and I took up the challenge. “No, I don’t. Your hand was forced.” Then I added, I admit more cruelly: “Have you ever done it again?”