not seriously, only just to help him to get well. If the plan
succeeded she would persuade Ralph that his duty was to marry Ellen.
And intoxicated with her own altruism, Mildred's thoughts passed on
and she imagined a dozen different dramas, in every one of which she
appeared in the character of a heroine.

'Mildred, what is the matter?'

'Nothing, dear, I've only forgotten my pocket-handkerchief.'

How irritating were Harold's stupid interruptions. She had to ask him
if he would take another cup of tea. He said that he thought he would
just have time. He had still five minutes. She poured out the tea,
thinking all the while of the sick man lying on his poor narrow bed in
the corner of the great studio. It was shameful that he should die;
tears rose to her eyes, and she had to walk across the room to hide
them. It was a pitiful story. He was dying for her, and she wasn't
worth it. She hadn't much heart; she knew it, perhaps one of these
days she would meet some one who would make her feel. She hoped so,
she wanted to feel. She wanted to love; if her brother were to die to-
morrow, she didn't believe she would really care. It was terrible; if
people only knew what she was like they would look the other way when
she passed down the street.... But, no, all this was morbid nonsense;
she was overwrought, and nervous, and that proved that she had a
heart. Perhaps too much heart.

In the next few days Ralph died a hundred times, and had been rescued
from death at least a dozen times by Mildred; she had watched by his
bedside, she had even visited his grave. And at the end of each dream
came the question: 'Would he live, would he die?' At last, unable to