should think she was better off. She wanted to see the things of which
Christopher had told her--to hear the temple bells in the dusk--the beat
of the tom-tom on white nights.

She stood at the window looking out at the moon. She decided that she
could not sleep. She would go down and get a book that she had left on
the table. The men were out-of-doors, on the porch; she heard the murmur
of their voices.

The voices were distinct as she stood in the library, and Christopher's
words came to her, "What's the matter with Anne?"

Then her husband's technical explanation, the scientific name which
meant nothing to her, then the crashing climax, "She can't get well."

She gave a quick cry, and when the men got into the room, she was
crumpled up on the floor.

Her husband reached her first. "My dear," he said, "you heard?"

"Yes. Do you mean that I am--going to die, Ridgeley?"

There was, of course, no way out of it. "It means, my dear, that I've
got to take awfully good care of you. Your heart is bad."

Christopher interposed. "People live for years with a heart like that."

But her eyes sought her husband's. "How long do they live?"

"Many months--perhaps years--without excitement--"