live ten years. But if I do that—if I live five years even—most of it will be as a helpless invalid—I'll have to get stiff, you know."  There was a rather dreadful levity in the way she put it.  "Stiffer and stiffer—till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down, immovable. I'll have to go on living that way—years, you see. I'll have to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on living that way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seems particularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I ride and play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. I care about them—a lot."  One could see it in the vivid pose of the figure.  "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I won't stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!"  The sliding, clear voice was low, but the "no" meant itself. 

 From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl could see the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light; receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain came in soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearness over the details of the room and left them vaguer. 

 "Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him.  "What do you think? Say it." 

 "Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly. 

 "The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" she gasped. 

 "I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, I suppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to help you better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much." 

 There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and the muttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dress was motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal—he could see only the blurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream, a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds; unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancy came the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words. 

 "Yes, there's more. A love story, of course—there's always that. Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it."  She stopped again.  "I don't know why I should tell you this part." 

 "Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly. He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would much prefer 

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