d away from him. Boy, do you think he will forgive me?"

It was fortunate Jane was blind: The doctor swallowed a word, then:
"Hush, dear," he said. "You make me sigh for the duchess's parrot. And
I shall do no good here, if I lose patience with Dalmain. Now tell me;
you really never remove that bandage?"

"Only to wash my face," replied Jane, smiling. "I can trust myself not
to peep for two minutes. And last night I found it made my head so hot
that I could not sleep; so I slipped it off for an hour or two, but
woke and put it on again before dawn."

"And you mean to wear it until to-morrow morning?"

Jane smiled rather wistfully. She knew what was involved in that
question.

"Until to-morrow night, Boy," she answered gently.

"But, Jeanette," exclaimed the doctor, in indignant protest; "surely
you will see me before I go! My dear girl, would it not be carrying the
experiment unnecessarily far?"

"Ah, no," said Jane, leaning towards him with her pathetic bandaged
eyes. "Don't you see, dear, you give me the chance of passing through
what will in time be one of his hardest experiences, when his dearest
friends will come and go, and be to him only voice and touch; their
faces unseen and but dimly remembered? Deryck, just because this
hearing and not seeing you IS so hard, I realise how it is enriching me
in what I can share with him. He must not have to say: 'Ah, but you saw
him before he left.' I want to be able to say: 'He came and went,--my
greatest friend,--and I did not see him at all.'"

The doctor walked over to the window and stood there, whistling softly.
Jane knew he was fighting down his own vexation. She waited patiently.
Presently the whistling stopped and she heard him laugh. Then he came
back and sat down near her.

"You always were a THOROUGH old thing!" he said.

"No half-measures would do. I suppose I must agree."

Jane reached out for his hand. "Ah, Boy," she said, "now you will help
me. But I never before knew you so nearly selfish."

"The 'other man' is always a problem," said the doctor. "We male
brutes, by nature, always want to be first with all our women; not
merely with the one, but with all those in whom we consider, sometimes
with egregious presumption, that we hold a right. You see it
everywhere,--fathers towards their daughters, brothers as regards their
sisters, friends in a friendship. The 'other man,' when he arrives, is
always a pill to swallow. It is only natural, I suppose;