unflinching eyes of the man gazed at the girl as she talked.

She talked rapidly, eagerly, as if each word lifted pressure. "It's
this way--I'm ill--hopelessly ill. Yes--it's absolutely so. I've got
to die. Two doctors said so. But I'll live--maybe five
years--possibly ten. I'm twenty-three now--and I may live ten years.
But if I do that--if I live five years even--most of it will be as a
helpless invalid--I'll have to get stiff, you know." There was a
rather dreadful levity in the way she put it. "Stiffer and
stiffer--till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down,
immovable. I'll have to go on living that way--years, you see. I'll
have to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on living
that way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seems
particularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I ride
and play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. I
care about them--a lot." One could see it in the vivid pose of the
figure. "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I _won't_
stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!" The sliding, clear voice was
low, but the "no" meant itself.

From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl could
see the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light;
receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain came
in soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearness
over the details of the room and left them vaguer.

"Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him. "What do you
think? Say it."

"Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly.