“I’ve discovered that health really is catching, like disease,” answered Arthur. 

 “Yes; sanity has broken out, and is spreading,” said Michael, performing a pas seul with a thoughtful expression. “Twenty thousand more cases taken to the hospitals; nurses employed night and day.” 

 Dr. Warner studied Michael’s grave face and lightly moving legs with an unfathomed wonder. “And is THIS, may I ask,” he said, “the sanity that is spreading?” 

 “You must forgive me, Dr. Warner,” cried Rosamund Hunt heartily. “I know I’ve treated you badly; but indeed it was all a mistake. I was in a frightfully bad temper when I sent for you, but now it all seems like a dream—and—and Mr. Smith is the sweetest, most sensible, most delightful old thing that ever existed, and he may marry any one he likes—except me.” 

 “I should suggest Mrs. Duke,” said Michael. 

 The gravity of Dr. Warner’s face increased. He took a slip of pink paper from his waistcoat pocket, with his pale blue eyes quietly fixed on Rosamund’s face all the time. He spoke with a not inexcusable frigidity. 

 “Really, Miss Hunt,” he said, “you are not yet very reassuring. You sent me this wire only half an hour ago: ‘Come at once, if possible, with another doctor. Man—Innocent Smith—gone mad on premises, and doing dreadful things. Do you know anything of him?’ I went round at once to a distinguished colleague of mine, a doctor who is also a private detective and an authority on criminal lunacy; he has come round with me, and is waiting in the cab. Now you calmly tell me that this criminal madman is a highly sweet and sane old thing, with accompaniments that set me speculating on your own definition of sanity. I hardly comprehend the change.” 

 “Oh, how can one explain a change in sun and moon and everybody’s soul?” cried Rosamund, in despair. “Must I confess we had got so morbid as to think him mad merely because he wanted to get married; and that we didn’t even know it was only because we wanted to get married ourselves? We’ll humiliate ourselves, if you like, doctor; we’re happy enough.” 

 “Where is Mr. Smith?” asked Warner of Inglewood very sharply. 

 Arthur started; he had forgotten all about the central figure of their farce, who had not been visible for an hour or more. 

 “I—I think he’s on the other side of the house, by the 

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