"I don't think I have put it quite that way, Anne."

"You have. Quite. 'Death is death and life is life--so make the most of
it.'"

Perhaps she was cruel. But he knew, too, that she was afraid. "My dear,"
he said gently, "if you can get any comfort out of your own ideas, it
might be better."

"But you believe they are just my own ideas--you don't believe they are
true?"

"I should like to think they were true."

"You ought to rest," said Christopher at the breakfast table.

"I ought not. There are to be no more oughts--ever--"

He nodded as if he understood, leaning elbows on the table.

"I am going to pack the days full"--she went on. "Why not? I shall have
only a few months--and then--annihilation--" She flung her question
across the table. "You believe that, don't you?"

He evaded. "We sleep--'perchance to dream.'"

"I don't want to dream. They might be horrid dreams--"

And then Jeanette came down, and poured their coffee, and asked about