light of a possible patient."

"Naturally," said Max. "I suppose even you are mortal."

"Oh, yes, I shall die some day like the rest of you," she answered
flippantly. "But I shan't have you by my death-bed. I shouldn't think
you had ever seen anybody die, have you?"

"Why not?" said Max.

"Nobody could with you standing by. You're too vital, too electric. I
picture you with your back against the door and your arms spread out,
hounding the poor wretch back into the prison-house."

Max got up abruptly and moved to the window. "You have a vivid
imagination," he said.

She laughed, drawing her fingers idly across the strings of her
mandolin.

"Quite nightmarishly so sometimes. It's rather a drawback for some
things. How are you enjoying that book of mine? Do you appreciate the
Arabian Nights' flavour in modern literature?"

"It's a bit rank, isn't it?" said Max.

She laughed up at him. "I should have thought you would have been virile
enough to like rank things. To judge by the tobacco you smoke, you do."

"Poisonous, isn't it?" said Nick. "I suppose it soothes his nerves, but