“Not when he thought of you left here all by yourself.”

Maisie smiled again.

“Jerry doesn’t think, thank Goodness.”

“Why ’thank Goodness’?”

“Because I don’t want him to.  I don’t want him to see.”

“To see what?”

“Why, that I can’t do things like other people.”

“Maisie—­why can’t you?  You used to.  Jerrold’s told me how you used to rush about, dancing and golfing and playing tennis.”

“Why?  Did he say anything?”

“Only that you took a lot of exercise, and he thinks it’s awfully bad for you knocking it all off now.”

“Dear old Jerry.  Of course he must think it frightfully stupid.  But I can’t help it, Anne.  I can’t do things now like I used to.  I’ve got to be careful.”

“But—­why?”

“Because there’s something wrong with my heart.  Jerry doesn’t know it.  I don’t want him to know.”

“You don’t mean seriously wrong?”

“Not very serious.  But it hurts.”

“Hurts?”

“Yes.  And the pain frightens me.  Every time it comes I think I’m going to die.  But I don’t die.”

“Oh—­Maisie—­what sort of pain?”

“A disgusting pain, Anne.  As if it was full of splintered glass, mixed up with bubbling blood, cutting and tearing.  It grabs at you and you choke; you feel as if your face would burst.  You’re afraid to breathe for fear it should come again.”

“But, Maisie, that’s angina.”

“It isn’t real angina; but it’s awful, all the same.  Oh, Anne, what must the real thing be like?”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes, two.  A man in London and a man in Torquay.”

“Do they say it isn’t the real thing?”

“Yes.  It’s all nerves.  But it’s every bit as bad as if it was real, except that I can’t die of it.”

“Poor little Maisie—­I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t mean you to know.  But I had to tell somebody.  It’s so awful being by yourself with it and being frightened.  And then I’m afraid all the time of Jerrold finding out.  I’m afraid of his seeing me when it comes on.”

“But, Maisie darling, he ought to know.  You ought to tell him.”

“No.  I haven’t told my father and mother because they’d tell him.  Luckily it’s only come on in the night, so that he hasn’t seen.  But it might come on anywhere, any minute.  If I’m excited or anything ...  That’s the awful thing, Anne; I’m afraid of getting excited.  I’m afraid to feel.  I’m afraid of everything that makes me feel.  I’m afraid of Jerrold’s touching me, even of his saying something nice to me.  The least thing makes my silly heart tumble about, and if it tumbles too much the pain comes.  I daren’t let Jerrold sleep with me.”

“Yet you haven’t told him.”

“No; I daren’t.”

“You must tell him, Maisie.”

“I won’t.  He’d mind horribly.  He’d be frightened and miserable, and I can’t bear him to be frightened and miserable.  He’s had enough.  He’s been through the war.  I don’t mean that that frightened him; but this would.”