f your face would burst. You're afraid to breathe
for fear it should come again."

"But, Maisie, that's angina."

"It isn't real angina; but it's awful, all the same. Oh, Anne, what must
the real thing be like?"

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yes, two. A man in London and a man in Torquay."

"Do they say it isn't the real thing?"

"Yes. It's all nerves. But it's every bit as bad as if it was real,
except that I can't die of it."

"Poor little Maisie--I didn't know."

"I didn't mean you to know. But I _had_ to tell somebody. It's so awful
being by yourself with it and being frightened. And then I'm afraid all
the time of Jerrold finding out. I'm afraid of his _seeing_ me when it
comes on."

"But, Maisie darling, he ought to know. You ought to tell him."

"No. I haven't told my father and mother because they'd tell him.
Luckily it's only come on in the night, so that he hasn't seen. But it
might come on anywhere, any minute. If I'm excited or anything ...
That's the awful thing, Anne; I'm afraid of getting excited. I'm afraid
to feel. I'm afraid of everything that makes me feel. I'm afraid of
Jerrold's touching me, even of his saying something nice to me. The
least thing makes my silly heart tumble about, and if it tumbles too
much the pain comes. I daren't let Jerrold sleep with me."

"Yet you haven't told him."

"No; I daren't."

"You _must_ tell him, Maisie."

"I won't. He'd mind horribly. He'd be frightened and miserable, and I
can't bear him to be frightened and miserable. He's had enough. He's
been through the war. I don't mean that that frightened him; but this
would."

"Do you mean to say he doesn't see it?"

"Bless you, no. He just thinks I'm tiresome and hysterical. I'd rather
he thought that than see him unhappy. Nothing in the world matters but
Jerrold. You see I care for him so frightfully.... You don't know how
awful it is, caring like that, and yet having to beat him back all the
time, never to give him anything. I daren't let him come near me because
of that ghastly fright. I know you oughtn't to be afraid of pain, but
it's a pain that makes you afraid. Being afraid's all part of it. So I
can't help it."

"Of course you can't help it."

"I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for Jerry. I ought never to have married
him."

"But, Maisie, I can't understand it. You're always so happy and calm.
How can you be calm and happy with _that_ hanging over you?"

"I've got to be calm for fear of it. A