witnessed had been a sudden and terrible crisis, not only in the life
of Sir Cyril, but also in that of the girl whose loveliness was dimly
revealed to me in the obscurity of the vehicle.

We had got no further than Trafalgar Square when she aroused herself,
looked at me, and gave a short laugh.

"I suppose," she remarked, "that a doctor can't cure every disease?"

"Scarcely," I replied.

"Not even a young doctor?" she said with comical gravity.

"Not even a young doctor," I gravely answered.

Then we both laughed.

"You must excuse my fun," she said. "I can't help it, especially when
my mind is disturbed."

"Why do you ask me?" I inquired. "Was it just a general observation
caused by the seriousness of my countenance, or were you thinking of
something in particular?"

"I was thinking of Alresca," she murmured, "my poor Alresca. He is the
rarest gentleman and the finest artist in Europe, and he is
suffering."

"Well," I said, "one can't break one's thigh for nothing."