“Tell me again,” he begged, “what the doctor really said!  It sounds too good to be true.”

“So I thought,” she agreed, “but I haven’t exaggerated a thing.  He assured me that there was no risk, no pain, and that the cure was certain.  I am to go to the hospital in three weeks’ time.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“Why should I?” she answered.  “The last time,” she continued, “it was in France.  I remember the white stone corridors, the white room, and the surgeons all dressed in white.  Do you know, they say that I shall be out again in a fortnight.”

He nodded.

“I can see you already,” he declared, “with a gold-headed stick and a fascinating limp like Marguerite de Vallieres.”

She smiled very faintly but said nothing.  Somehow, it was hard to make conversation.  Ruth was unusually pale, even for her.  The eyes which followed that line of yellow lights were full of trouble.

“Tell me,” he begged presently, “you have something on your mind, I am sure.  There is nothing you are keeping from me?”

“Have I not enough,” she asked, “to make me anxious?”

“Naturally,” he admitted, “and yet, after all, you have only seen your father once in your life.”

“But I am sure that I could have loved him so much,” she murmured.  “He seems to have come and gone in a dream.”

“This morning’s report was more hopeful,” he reminded her.  “There is every chance that he may live.”

“All the time,” she answered, fervently, “I am praying that he may.  If he treated my mother badly, I am sure that he has suffered.  I can’t quite forget, either,” she went on, “although that seems selfish, that when I come out of the hospital, even if all goes well, I may still be homeless.”

He leaned over her.

“Ruth,” he exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

“You know,” she answered, simply.  “You must know.”

His heart began to beat more quickly.  He turned his head but she was looking away.  He could see only the curve of her long eyelashes.  It seemed to him strange then that he had never noticed the likeness to Sabatini before.  Her mouth, her forehead, the carriage of her head, were all his.  He leaned towards her.  There was something stirring in his heart then, something throbbing there, which seemed to bring with it a cloud of new and bewildering emotions.  The whole world was slipping away.  Something strange had come into the room.

“Ruth,” he whispered, “will you look at me for a moment?”

She kept her head turned away.

“Don’t!” she pleaded.  “Don’t talk to me just now.  I can’t bear it, Arnold.”

“But I have something to say to you,” he persisted.  “I have something new, something I must say, something that has just come to me.  You must listen, Ruth.”

She held out her hand feverishly.

“Please, Arnold,” she begged, “I don’t want to hear—­anything.  I know how kind you are and how generous.  Just now—­I think it is the heat—­be still, please.  I can’t bear anything.”