elves drop into poetry, the birth rate of this country
will very soon drop into poetry too. And that I think it is impossible
for us to contemplate with folded hands. The resolution I was about to
propose when our friend in the body of the hall----"

But Barbara's attention, had wandered off again into that queer medley of
thoughts, and feelings, out of which the little man had so abruptly
roused her. Then she realized that the meeting was breaking up, and her
mother saying:

"Now, my dear, it's hospital day. We've just time."

When they were once more in the car, she leaned back very silent,
watching the traffic.

Lady Valleys eyed her sidelong.

"What a little bombshell," she said, "from that small person! He must
have got in by mistake. I hear Mr. Courtier has a card for Helen
Gloucester's ball to-night, Babs."

"Poor man!"

"You will be there," said Lady Valleys dryly.

Barbara drew back into her corner.

"Don't tease me, Mother!"

An expression of compunction crossed Lady Valleys' face; she tried to
possess herself of Barbara's hand. But that languid hand did not return
her squeeze.

"I know the mood you're in, dear. It wants all one's pluck to shake it
off; don't let it grow on you. You'd better go down to Uncle Dennis
to-morrow. You've been overdoing it."

Barbara sighed.

"I wish it were to-morrow."

The car had stopped, and Lady Valleys said:

"Will you come in, or are you too tired? It always does them good to see
you."

"You're twice as tired as me," Barbara answered; "of course I'll come."

At the entrance of the two ladies, there rose at once a faint buzz and
murmur. Lady Valleys, whose ample presence radiated suddenly a
businesslike and cheery confidence, went to a bedside and sat down. But
Barbara stood in a thin streak of the July sunlight, uncertain where to
begin, amongst the faces turned towards her. The poor dears looked so
humble, and so wistful, and so tired. There was one lying quite flat,
who had not even raised her head to see who had come in. That slumbering,
pale, high cheek-boned face had a frailty as if a touch, a breath, would
shatter it; a wisp of the blackest hair, finer than silk, lay across the
forehead; the closed eyes were deep sunk; one hand, scarred almost to the
bone with work, rested above her breast. She breathed between lips which
had no colour. About her, sleeping, was a kind of beauty. And there
came over the girl a queer rush of emotion