her without knowing that she had genius, only that she had sympathy--had
no idea that she was a great woman, only that she was a charming one.
He was looking at her with a worried expression.

"June," he said, "you look tired."

"Oh, but I'm not a bit."

He put her feet up and covered them with a shawl.

"I wish you would stop writing," he said. "What good do books do? Health
is the only thing that matters."

"Loving is the only thing that matters," she murmured, "loving and being
loved."

"Well," (George thought it so like a woman to go off at a tangent like
that), "you've got Richard."

"Richard," she twinkled, "is not like you. He loves my books."

"He ought to know better," George asserted severely, and at that moment
in he came.

"George!" Richard was jubilant. "Have you heard the news?"

"What news?" George was thinking of the Carpentier-Lewis fight due that
night.

"June has been awarded the Nobel prize."