Diane had been told the first part of the doctor's pronouncement, and
recommended by her husband to "rouse herself" out of her apathetic
state.

"'No specific disease!'" she repeated bitterly, as she sat brooding in
the firelight. "No--only this death in life which I have had to endure.
Well, it will be over soon--and the sooner the better."

The door burst open suddenly and Magda came in to the room, checking
abruptly, with a child's stumbling consciousness of pain, as she caught
sight of her mother curled up in front of the fire, staring mutely into
its glowing heart.

"_Maman_?" she begin timidly. "_Petite maman_?"

Diane turned round.

"Cherie, is it thou?"

She kneeled up on the hearthrug and, taking the child in her arms,
searched her face with dry, bright eyes.

"Baby," she said. "Listen! And when thou art older, remember always what
I have said."

Magda stared at her, listening intently.

"Never, never give your heart to any man," continued Diane. "If you
do, he will only break it for you--break it into little pieces like the
glass scent-bottle which you dropped yesterday. Take everything. But do