situation, and at its suggestion seriousness was impossible. That
is, to me. In Selwyn's face was no smiling.

"If there have been any little dreams I'm glad she wrote me. In
reply I had a chance to say what there has been no chance to say
before. Were there imaginings that Harrie was to bring his wife to
his old home they will cease when she gets my note. No house is big
enough for a bride and groom and members of either family, and
certainly mine isn't. I limited comment on Harrie to his financial
condition; expressed regret at my inability to explain his failure to
keep his engagement, and gave her no hint of my uneasiness. Only to
you have I given it. Something is wrong. I'm afraid the boy is ill
somewhere. The thing has gotten on my nerves. I've got to do
something. I can't go on this way."

With eyes in which nervous uneasiness was unrestrained, Selwyn looked
at me, asking unconsciously for help I could not give, and for a
moment I said nothing. Possibilities of which I could not speak were
clutching at my heart and making me cold with fear and horror, for
suddenly something I had overheard a girl telling Mrs. Mundy a few
days before, as I passed through the hall, came to me with cruel and
compelling clearness. "He's a gentleman, all right. Drunk or sober,
you can tell that. She ain't left him day or night since he was
taken sick, and except the doctor she won't let any one come in the
room."

The words of the girl talking to Mrs. Mundy repeated themselves with
such distinctness that it seemed Selwyn would hear the thick beating
of my heart and understand its wonder as to who the man was who was
ill, who the girl who was nursing him. Did Mrs. Mundy know? Lest he