last for months.
Perhaps he is right, but I have no desire to live. Why should I? And
where could I end my days more pleasantly than amidst these
masterpieces of the great Architect?"

Mrs. Grey came for me when the dinner bell sounded, and we went down
together. It has been arranged that I am to lunch with the squire in
his own room, but to have dinner with the rest at a little table which
I share with the Greys.

The doctor is just a great bouncing boy, with merry eyes and thick
brown hair. He is on good terms with everybody--guests of high degree
and low, waiters, porters, chambermaids--all the cosmopolitan crowd.
He adores his little wife, and it is funny to see so big a man
worshipping at so small a shrine.

I expressed my gratitude to them both as we sat at dinner, and he
laughed--such a hearty, boisterous laugh.

"It's my wife. Dot wouldn't hear of leaving, and you cannot get a
separation order in these wilds. She has spent so much time with the
old gentleman that I have been madly jealous for hours at a stretch."

"Don't be untruthful, Ralph," said Mrs. Grey. "You know perfectly well
that you have spoiled our honeymoon with the simple and sordid motive
of gaining professional experience. Besides, you are nicest when you
are jealous."

"Am I, by Jove!" he laughed. "Then 'niceness' will become habitual
with me, for the way all the men look at you fans the flame of my
jealousy. But this is poor stuff for Miss Holden, and I want to talk
seriously to her."

"What is your candid opinion of Mr. Evans?" I asked.

"He is marked to fall, Miss Holden, but if he can be persuaded to make
the effort to live he need not fall for months, perhaps even for years.
The fact is, he has become indifferent to life, and that is against
him."

"What is really the matter with him?"

"Now, there you corner me," he replied. "He has a weak heart,
bronchial trouble, some diabetic tendencies and disordered nerves; but
what is really the matter with him I have not discovered. Can you tell
me?"

"I should have thought all these things were matter enough," I
answered; "but what really ails him, I believe, is what is commonly
termed a 'broken heart.' He is always mourning the loss of his wife
and always dwelling upon reunion."

"He never told me that," replied the doctor thoughtfully; "I am glad to
know it."

"Why should he remain abroad all this time?" I asked.

"Because he shouldn't!" he replied. "In my judgmen