“Send her out of the room.” I was impatient at her interference. “All right, nurse, I’ll sit with Mrs. Vevaseur until you’ve had your dinner. You won’t talk too much?” she said to me imploringly. “Perhaps,” I answered, and smiled. It was good to have Ella sitting with me again. “The doctor did not wish her to speak at all, nor to see visitors.” I don’t know how Ella managed to get that authoritative white-capped female out of the room, but she did; she had infinite tact and resource. “Shall I get my needlework? Or would you rather I read to you? You really mustn’t talk.” “Neither. You are not going away?” “I am staying as long as you want me.” Not a word about the times when I had told her brutally to let me alone, when I had almost turned her out of the house in London, finally fled from her here. That was Ella all over, and characteristic of me that I could not even thank her. When she said she would stay it seemed too good to be true. I questioned her about her responsibilities. “What about Violet and Tommy, the paper?” For Ella, too, was bound on the Ixion wheel of the weekly press. “It’s all right; everything has been arranged, in the best possible way. I am quite free. I shan’t go away until you ask me to go.” Then I began to cry, in my great weakness, but hid my eyes, for I knew my tears would hurt her. I gave way only for a moment. It was such a relief to know her there, to feel I was being cared for. Paid service is only for the sound. Ella pretended not to notice my little breakdown, although she was not far off it herself. She began to talk of indifferent things. Who had telegraphed, or rung up; she told me that the news of my illness had been in the papers. All my good friends whom I had avoided during those dreary months had forgotten they had been snubbed and came forward with genuine sympathy and offers of help. I soon stopped her from telling me about them. It made me feel ashamed and unworthy. I could not recollect ever having done anything for anybody. “About getting Dr. Kennedy back?” “He neglected you disgracefully; wrote me lightly. I don’t wonder you told him not to call.” “I want him back.” “Then you shall have him back. You shall have everything you want, only go on getting better.” She turned her face away from me. “Have I begun?” She made no answer, and I knew it was because she could not at the moment command her voice. So I stayed quiet a little while. Then I began again to beg her to rid me of Lansdowne. “After all, he is independent of his profession,” she said at length thoughtfully, thinking of his feelings and how not to hurt them. “He married a rich woman.” “He would. And I am sure he has no children,” I answered. “Good heavens! How did you know? You are cleverer when you are ill than other people when they are well.” That is like Ella, too, she has an exaggerated and absurd opinion of my talent. Just because I write novels which are paid for beyond their deserts!