topped. Then, leaning forward a little with one arm on the table, he
said:

"Does my wife know what it is?"

"I've never told her," Isaacson answered.

"Well, but does she know?"

The voice that asked was almost suspicious. And the eyes that regarded
Isaacson were now suspicious, too.

"How can I tell? She told me she supposed it to be a sunstroke."

"That was Hartley's nonsense. Hartley put that idea into her head. But
since you came, of course she's realized there was more in it than
that."

"I dare say."

Nigel waited, as if expecting something more. But Isaacson kept silence.
Dinner was over. Nigel got up, and walking steadily, though not yet with
the brisk lightness of complete strength and buoyancy, led the way to
the drawing-room.

"Shall we sit out on the terrace?"

"If you like. But you must have a coat. I'll fetch it."

"Oh, don't you--"

But the doctor was gone. In a moment he returned with a coat and a light
rug. He helped Nigel to put the coat on, took him by the arm, led him
out to the chair, and, when he was in it, arranged the rug over his
knees.

"You're awfully good to me, Isaacson," Nigel said, almost with softness,
"awfully good to me. I am grateful."

"That's all right."

"We were speaking about it only to-day, Ruby and I. She was saying that
we mustn't presume on your kindness that we mustn't detain you out here
now that I'm out of the wood."

"She wants to get rid of me! Then she must be coming back!" The thought
darted through Isaacson's brain, upsetting a previously formed
conviction which, to a certain extent, had guided his conduct during
dinner.

"Oh, I'm in no hurry," he said, carelessly. "I want to get you quite
strong."

"Yes, but your patients in London! You know I've been feeling so ill
that I've been beastly selfish. I've thought only of myself. I've made a
slave of my wife, and now I've been keeping you out of London all this
time."

As he spoke, his voice grew warmer. His reserve seemed to be melting,
the friend to be stirring in the patient. Although certainly he did not
realize it, the absence of his wife had already made a difference in his
feeling towards Isaacson. Her perpetual silent hostility was like an
emanation that insensibly affected her husband. Now that was withdrawn
to a distance, he reverted instinctively towards--not yet to--the old
relation with his friend. He longed to get rid of all the difficulty
between them, and this could only be don