And then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven, he called.

She went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused on the threshold.

Glancing at her he smiled.

"You look like a bird about to take flight. Won't you sit down?"

She went nearer. Nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated.

"I see you are busy," he said. "I thought perhaps your housework might be done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. Well, I mustn't interrupt. Forgive me for calling."

"I'm not busy."

"You seem hurried."

"I'm not. I haven't a thing in the world to do," Marcia burst out.

"Good! Then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "Now answer this question truthfully, please. You heard what Doctor Stetson said about my returning to New York today. I don't want to be pig-headed and take a risk if it is imprudent; that[96] is neither fair to others nor to myself. Still, it is important that I go and I am anxious to. What is your advice?"

[96]

"I think you are too ill."

A frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead.

"If you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then be all right to go," she added.

Obviously the suggestion did not please him. However, he answered more mildly:

"Perhaps you're right. Yet for all that I am disappointed. I want very much to go. It is necessary."

"Can't anything be done from here?" queried she.

"Such as—?"

"Letters, telegrams—whatever you wish. I can telephone or telegraph anywhere. Or I can write."

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