"I weigh one hundred and thirty-four pounds, and I've got to melt and
freeze and starve off that four," I answered, ignoring the heart
question and also the question of producing this book. Wonder what he
would do if I gave it to him to read just as it is?

"How about the heart?" he persisted, and I may have imagined the smile
in his eyes, for his mouth was purely professional. Anyhow, I lowered my
lashes down on to my cheeks and answered experimentally:

"Sometimes it hurts." Then a cyclone happened to me.

"Come here to me a minute!" he said quickly, and he turned me round and
put his head down between my shoulders and held me so tight against his
ear that I could hardly breathe.

"Expand your chest three times and breathe as deep as you can," he
ordered from against my back buttons. I expanded and breathed--pretty
quickly at that.

"Now hold your breath as long as you can," he commanded, and it fitted
my mood exactly to do so.

"Can't find anything," he said at last, letting me go and looking
carefully at my face. His eyes were all anxiety; and I liked it. "When
does it hurt you, and how?" he asked anxiously.

"Moonlight nights and lonesomely," I answered before I could stop
myself, and what happened then was worse than any cyclone. He got white
for a minute and just looked at me as if I was an insect stuck on a pin,