ted to speak she coughed
slightly, then, laughing, said, in a low, rich voice, a trifle husky:
"You see I make the traditional Camille entrance. How good of you to
come, Mr. Hilgarde."

Everett was acutely conscious that while addressing him she was not
looking at him at all, and, as he assured her of his pleasure in coming,
he was glad to have an opportunity to collect himself. He had not
reckoned upon the ravages of a long illness. The long, loose folds of her
white gown had been especially designed to conceal the sharp outlines of
her body, but the stamp of her disease was there; simple and ugly and
obtrusive, a pitiless fact that could not be disguised or evaded. The
splendid shoulders were stooped, there was a swaying unevenness in her
gait, her arms seemed disproportionately long, and her hands were
transparently white, and cold to the touch. The changes in her face were
less obvious; the proud carriage of the head, the warm, clear eyes, even
the delicate flush of colour in her cheeks, all defiantly remained,
though they were all in a lower key--older, sadder, softer.

She sat down upon the divan and began nervously to arrange the pillows.
"Of course I'm ill, and I look it, but you must be quite frank and
sensible about that and get used to it at once, for we've no time to
lose. And if I'm a trifle irritable you won't mind?--for I'm more than
usually nervous."

"Don't bother with me this morning, if you are tired," urged Everett. "I
can come quite as well tomorrow."

"Gracious, no!" she protested, with a flash of that quick, keen humour
that he remembered as a part of her. "It's solitude that I'm tired to
death of--solitude and the wrong kind of people. You see, the minister
called on me this morning. He happened to be riding by on his bicycle and
felt it his duty to stop. The funniest feature of his conversation is
that he is always excusing my own profession to me. But how we are losing
time! Do tell me about New York; Charley says you're just on from there.
How does it look and taste and smell just now? I think a whiff of the
Jersey ferry would be as flagons of cod-liver oil to me. Are the trees
still green in Madison Square, or have they grown brown and dusty? Does
the chaste Diana still keep her vows through all the exasperating changes
of weather? Who has your brother's old studio now, and what misguided
aspirants practise their scales in the rookeries about Carnegie Hall?
What do people go to see at the