noon, Dr.
John has just 'phoned to ask me if I can call on the eldest Miss
Martin. He says that her state of mind is her greatest trouble. And it
does not react to medicine."

The professor looked still more injured.

"We can't begin the totem chapter unless we are going to go on with
it," he objected. "I don't see why John doesn't get a secretary of his
own."

"He has a nurse," said Desire smoothly.

"Er--oh yes, of course. Well, perhaps we had better begin--but why does
he want you to call on Miss Martin?"

Desire looked self-conscious, a rare thing for her. "Well, you see, I
have an idea about Miss Martin. It may be entirely wrong but John
thinks it worth trying. You knew that her fiance was killed just before
the armistice, didn't you? John says she seemed stunned at the time but
kept on, the way most women did. She helped him fight the 'flu' all
that winter without taking it her-self. But she was one of the first to
come down with it when it returned this Spring. She got through the
worst--and there she stays. John says that if she doesn't begin to pick
up soon there won't be enough of her left to bother about."

"And your idea?"

"You might laugh," said Desire with sudden shyness.

The professor promised not to laugh.

"My idea is this. To find out the real reason for her not getting
better and treat that."

"Very simple."

"Yes, because John already knows the real cause. He says she doesn't
get well because she doesn't want to. In the old days people would say
her heart was broken. And it seems such a pity, because, if what
everyone says is true, she would have been frightfully unhappy if she
had married him. (Desire became slightly incoherent here.) They weren't
suited at all. He was a musician, a derelict who hadn't a thought in
the world for anything but his violin. Aunt Caroline says the
engagement was a mystery to everyone. She says that probably Miss
Martin just offered to take him in hand and look after him (she used to
be very capable) and he hadn't backbone enough to say she couldn't.
They say that the only time anyone ever saw a gleam in his face was the
day he went away to the war. Then he was killed. And now she won't get
well because she can't forget him."

"And that is what you call a 'pity'?"

"Well, not exactly that." She hesitated. "If he had cared for her as
she thought he did, it wouldn't seem such a waste. But he didn't.
Everybody knew it--except herself."

"Everybody may h