'But what is your illness? Nellie Brand told me that you caught a bad
cold about a month ago. Perhaps a specialist---'

'Yes, I had a bad attack of influenza about a month or six weeks ago
and I hadn't strength, the doctor said, to recover from it. I have
been in bad health for some time. I've been disappointed. My painting
hasn't gone very well lately. That was a disappointment.
Disappointment, I think, is as often the cause of a man's death as
anything else. The doctors give it a name: influenza, or paralysis of
the brain, failure of the heart's action, but these are the
superficial causes of death. There is often a deeper reason: one which
medical science is unable to take into account.'

'Oh, Ralph, you mean me. Don't say that I am the cause. It was not my
fault. If I broke my engagement it was because I knew I could not have
made you happy. There's no reason to be jealous, it wasn't for any
other man. There never will be another man. I was really very fond of
you. ... It wasn't my fault.'

'No, dear, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't any one's fault, it was the
fault of luck.'

Mildred longed for tears, but her eyes remained dry, and they wandered
round the studio examining and wondering at the various canvases. A
woman who had just left her bath passed her arms into the sleeves of a
long white wrapper. There was something peculiarly attractive in the
picture. The picture said something that had not been said before, and
Mildred admired its naturalness. But she was still more interested in
the fact that the picture had been painted from the woman who had
opened the door to her.