“Yes,” Bickley was saying, “he will do well now, but he went near, very near.” “I knew he would not die,” she answered, “because my father said so.” “There are two sorts of deaths,” replied Bickley, “that of the body and that of the mind. I was afraid that even if he lived, his reason would go, but from certain indications I do not think that will happen now. He will get quite well again—though—” and he stopped. “I am very glad to hear you say so,” chimed in Bastin. “For weeks I thought that I should have to read the Burial Service over poor Arbuthnot. Indeed I was much puzzled as to the best place to bury him. Finally I found a very suitable spot round the corner there, where it isn’t rock, in which one can’t dig and the soil is not liable to be flooded. In fact I went so far as to clear away the bush and to mark out the grave with its foot to the east. In this climate one can’t delay, you know.” Weak as I was, I smiled. This practical proceeding was so exactly like Bastin. “Well, you wasted your labour,” exclaimed Bickley. “Yes, I am glad to say I did. But I don’t think it was your operations and the rest that cured him, Bickley, although you take all the credit. I believe it was the Life-water that the Lady Yva made him drink and the stuff that Oro sent which we gave him when you weren’t looking.” “Then I hope that in the future you will not interfere with my cases,” said the indignant Bickley, and either the voices passed away or I went to sleep. When I woke up again it was to find the Lady Yva seated at my side watching me. “Forgive me, Humphrey, because I here; others gone out walking,” she said slowly in English. “Who taught you my language?” I asked, astonished. “Bastin and Bickley, while you ill, they teach; they teach me much. Man just same now as he was hundred thousand years ago,” she added enigmatically. “All think one woman beautiful when no other woman there.” “Indeed,” I replied, wondering to what proceedings on the part of Bastin and Bickley she alluded. Could that self-centred pair—oh! it was impossible. “How long have I been ill?” I asked to escape the subject which I felt to be uncomfortable. She lifted her beautiful eyes in search of words and began to count upon her fingers. “Two moon, one half moon, yes, ten week, counting Sabbath,” she answered triumphantly. “Ten weeks!” I exclaimed.