“I will tell you why I would do anything on earth for you,” he said, turning round abruptly on the piano stool. “If you want to know.” I was wide-awake now and surprised, for I had forgotten of what we had talked before I went off. “It is because you are so brave and uncomplaining.” “It isn’t true. Ask Ella. She has had an awful time with me, grumbling and ungrateful.” “Your sister adores you, thinks there is no one like you.” “That is merely her idiosyncrasy.” “Well! there is another reason. You asked for it and you are going to be told. The love of my life was Margaret Capel.” He stared at me when he said it. “You remind me of her all the time.” I shut my eyes. When I opened them again his back was all I saw and he was again playing softly; talking at the same time. “When I came here, the first time, the first day, and saw you sitting in her chair, at her table, in her attitude, as I said, it was a reincarnation.” He got up from the music stool and came over to me. He said, without preliminary or excuse, “You are taking opium in some form or other.” “I am taking my medicine.” “I am not blaming you. You’ve read De Quincey, haven’t you? You know his theory?” “Some of it.” “Never mind; perhaps you’ve missed it, better if you have. In those days it was often thought that opium cured consumption.” “Then it is consumption?” “What does it matter what we call it? Pleurisy, as you have had it, generally means tubercle. But you will hang on a long time. The life of Margaret Capel must be written and by you. She always wanted it written. From what you tell me she still wants it. I poured my life at her feet those few months she was here, but she never gave me a thought, not until the end. Then, then at the last, I held her eyes, her thoughts, her bewildered questioning eyes. Bewildered or grateful? Shall I ever know? Will you tell me, I wonder, hear it from her, reassure me....” He stopped. “I suppose you think I am mad?” “I have never thought you quite sane. But,” I added consolingly, “that is better than being merely stupid, like most doctors. So you regard me,” I could not help my tone being bitter, “as a clairvoyante, expectantly....” “Does any man ever care for a woman except expectantly, or retrospectively?” “How should I know?” He sat down by my side. “No one should know better. Tell me more about yourself, I have only heard from Mrs. Lovegrove.” “She told you, I suppose, that I had a great and growing reputation, had faithful lovers sighing for me, that I was thirty-eight....” “She told me a great deal more than that.” “I have no doubt. Well! in the first place I am not thirty-eight, but forty-two. My books sell, but the literary papers ignore them. I make enough for myself and Dennis.” “Dennis?” His tone was surprised. “Ella never mentioned Dennis to you?” “No.”