over his face. He caught her hands in his again.

"Oh, the bliss--the sheer bliss of relief from pain!" he murmured. "Half
an hour ago I was in hell--quite so. Now...." He drew away one of his
hands, and spread it out slowly at arm's length, smiling at it. It was
odd and painful to see the huge man thus reproduce exactly the gesture
of a baby who gazes with wonder at its own hand.

"Now," he went on, "my very hands are happy. It's a pleasure--a
thrilling joy just to move my fingers--quietly, like that...."

"You aren't feverish now, are you?" asked Sophy. She put her hand on his
forehead. It was dry and warm, but not feverish.

"No--no. Not in the least," he said, and again that fretful look crossed
his face. But the next instant he was rambling on.

"Yes--bliss just to be--just to breathe. To stretch out--so." He
elongated his limbs under the bedclothes, stretching luxuriously like a
great cat. "If I were a Titan, by Jove!--I could fill up space just by
stretching myself like that. Bum fancy, eh?" He laughed softly, and took
several sips of champagne--then lighted a cigarette.

"Ought you to smoke?" faltered Sophy. Somehow, the more gay and
garrulous he grew, the more depressed and anxious she felt. She did not
trust Gaynor. What was this sinisterly benevolent medicine that could
change a man from an angry, brutal invalid, into a huge, merry child as
it were, chirping at the toys of fancy?

"Do you know anything about epilepsy, Sophy? Bless you, you darling!
don't look so frightened. _I_ haven't got epilepsy--but there was that
Russian chap--Dostoievsky--who had it. He speaks of a wonderful
moment--a luminous moment that comes just before an attack--before the
fit, you know. He says you seem to understand everything, and know
everything, and be in harmony with everything--as if there were no more
time. Well--I have not only one moment like that but hundreds,
thousands--when I'm as I am now--after a collapse like that. By God!
It's worth the suffering. That's what Dostoievsky said. He said that
moment was worth all the rest of his life. He was right.... Yes, he was
right."

Sophy took one of his excited hands and held it in both her own.

"Cecil--dear Cecil," she said. "Please, for my sake--consult a doctor
about that medicine Gaynor gives you."

For a second--the merest flash, a look of fury narrowed his eyes. Then
he laughed, gaily, good-naturedly, patted her hand.

"My good child, haven't you ever heard