adored her, too. And
again he wondered whether it would have made any difference to Maisie if
he had.

He thought not. She was happy, as it was, in her gentle, unexcited way.
Happy and at peace. Giving happiness and peace, if peace were what you
wanted. It was that happiness and peace of Maisie's that had drawn him
to her when he gave Anne up three years ago.

And again he couldn't understand this combination of hysteria and
perfect peace. He couldn't understand Maisie.

Perhaps, after all, she had got what she had wanted. She wouldn't have
been happy and at peace if she had been married to some brute who would
have had no pity, who would have insisted on his rights. Some faithful
brute; or some brute no more faithful to her than he, who had been
faithful only to Anne.

As he thought of Anne darkness came down over his brain. His mind
struggled through it, looking for the light.

The entrance of his friends cut short his struggling.

ii

Maisie lay on the couch in the library, and Anne sat with her. Maisie's
eyes had been closed, but now they had opened, and Anne saw them looking
at her and smiling.

"You are a darling, Anne; but I wish you'd gone with Jerrold."

"I don't. I wouldn't have liked it a bit."

"_He_ would, though."

"Not when he thought of you left here all by yourself."

Maisie smiled again.

"Jerry doesn't think, thank Goodness."

"Why 'thank Goodness'?"

"Because I don't want him to. I don't want him to see."

"To see what?"

"Why, that I can't do things like other people."

"Maisie--_why_ can't you? You used to. Jerrold's told me how you used to
rush about, dancing and golfing and playing tennis."

"Why? Did he say anything?"

"Only that you took a lot of exercise, and he thinks it's awfully bad
for you knocking it all off now."

"Dear old Jerry. Of course he must think it frightfully stupid. But I
can't help it, Anne. I can't do things now like I used to. I've got to
be careful."

"But--why?"

"Because there's something wrong with my heart. Jerry doesn't know it. I
don't want him to know."

"You don't mean seriously wrong?"

"Not very serious. But it hurts."

"Hurts?"

"Yes. And the pain frightens me. Every time it comes I think I'm going
to die. But I don't die."

"Oh--_Maisie_--what sort of pain?"

"A disgusting pain, Anne. As if it was full of splintered glass, mixed
up with bubbling blood, cutting and tearing. It grabs at you and you
choke; you feel as i