Everett was still standing before the picture, his hands behind him and his head inclined, when he heard the door open.  A tall woman advanced toward him, holding out her hand.  As she started to speak she coughed slightly, then, laughing, said, in a low, rich voice, a trifle husky:  “You see I make the traditional Camille entrance.  How good of you to come, Mr. Hilgarde.”

Everett was acutely conscious that while addressing him she was not looking at him at all, and, as he assured her of his pleasure in coming, he was glad to have an opportunity to collect himself.  He had not reckoned upon the ravages of a long illness.  The long, loose folds of her white gown had been especially designed to conceal the sharp outlines of her body, but the stamp of her disease was there; simple and ugly and obtrusive, a pitiless fact that could not be disguised or evaded.  The splendid shoulders were stooped, there was a swaying unevenness in her gait, her arms seemed disproportionately long, and her hands were transparently white, and cold to the touch.  The changes in her face were less obvious; the proud carriage of the head, the warm, clear eyes, even the delicate flush of colour in her cheeks, all defiantly remained, though they were all in a lower key—­older, sadder, softer.

She sat down upon the divan and began nervously to arrange the pillows.  “Of course I’m ill, and I look it, but you must be quite frank and sensible about that and get used to it at once, for we’ve no time to lose.  And if I’m a trifle irritable you won’t mind?—­for I’m more than usually nervous.”

“Don’t bother with me this morning, if you are tired,” urged Everett.  “I can come quite as well tomorrow.”

“Gracious, no!” she protested, with a flash of that quick, keen humour that he remembered as a part of her.  “It’s solitude that I’m tired to death of—­solitude and the wrong kind of people.  You see, the minister called on me this morning.  He happened to be riding by on his bicycle and felt it his duty to stop.  The funniest feature of his conversation is that he is always excusing my own profession to me.  But how we are losing time!  Do tell me about New York; Charley says you’re just on from there.  How does it look and taste and smell just now?  I think a whiff of the Jersey ferry would be as flagons of cod-liver oil to me.  Are the trees still green in Madison Square, or have they grown brown and dusty?  Does the chaste Diana still keep her vows through all the exasperating changes of weather?  Who has your brother’s old studio now, and what misguided aspirants practise their scales in the rookeries about Carnegie Hall?  What do people go to see at the theatres, and what do they eat and drink in the world nowadays?  Oh, let me die in Harlem!” she was interrupted by a violent attack of coughing, and Everett, embarrassed by her discomfort, plunged into gossip about the professional people he had met in town during the summer, and the musical outlook for the winter.  He was diagramming with his pencil some new mechanical device to be used at the Metropolitan in the production of the Rheingold, when he became conscious that she was looking at him intently, and that he was talking to the four walls.