"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly.
"I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your
articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly
all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and--and--"

I gripped her hand in silence.

"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even
those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to
themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we
never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round
me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away
indignant and never think kindly of me again."

She gloomed.

"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly
have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the
things they say you say I say...."

"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."

"But it's quite _true_," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought
to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself
with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and--and it's
no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only--sort of misrubble."

She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her
conclusion.