been there half an hour. At first she could
hardly force her mind to listen; but as he talked on and on, he
captured her attention and held it.

The next day she began with Moldini, and put the Lucia Rivi system into
force in all its more than conventual rigors. And for about a month
she worked like a devouring flame. Never had there been such energy,
such enthusiasm. Mrs. Belloc was alarmed for her health, but the Rivi
system took care of that; and presently Mrs. Belloc was moved to say,
"Well, I've often heard that hard work never harmed anyone, but I never
believed it. Now I know the truth."

Then Mildred went to Hanging Rock to spend Saturday to Monday with her
mother. Presbury, reduced now by various infirmities--by absolute
deafness, by dimness of sight, by difficulty in walking--to where
eating was his sole remaining pleasure, or, indeed, distraction, spent
all his time in concocting dishes for himself. Mildred could not
resist--and who can when seated at table with the dish before one's
eyes and under one's nose. The Rivi regimen was suspended for the
visit. Mildred, back in New York and at work again, found that she was
apparently none the worse for her holiday, was in fact better. So she
drifted into the way of suspending the regimen for an evening now and
then--when she dined with Mrs. Brindley, or when Agnes Belloc had
something particularly good. All went well for a time. Then--a cold.
She neglected it, feeling sure it could not stay with one so soundly
healthy through and through. But it did stay; it grew worse. She
decided that she ought to take medicine for it. True, starvation was
the cure prescribed by the regimen, but Mildred could not bring herself
to two or three days of discomfort. Also, many people told her that
such a cure was foolish and even dangerous. The cold got better, got
worse, got better. But her throat became queer, and at last her voice
left her. She was ashamed to go to Moldini in such a condition. She
dropped in upon Hicks, the throat specialist. He "fixed her up"
beautifully with a few sprayings. A week--and her voice left her
again, and Hicks could not bring it back. As she left his office, it
was raining--an icy, dreary drizzle. She splashed her way home, in
about the lowest spirits she had ever known. She locked her door and
seated herself at the window and stared out, while the storm raged
within her. After an hour or two she wrote and sent Moldini a n