“Have you enjoyed yourself in Italy?”

“Not much.  I have not been very well,” Cecily answered, leaning forward.

“Did you go to Naples?”

“Only as fat as Rome.”

“How can any one be in Italy, and not go to Naples?” said Madeline, in a low tone of wonder.

Silence came again.  Cecily listened to the sound of breathing.  Madeline coughed, and seemed to make a fruit less effort to speak; then she commanded her voice.

“I took a dislike to you at Naples,” she said, with the simple directness of one who no longer understands why every thought should not be expressed.  “It began when you showed that you didn’t care for Mr. Marsh’s drawings.  It is strange to think of that now.  You know I was engaged to Mr. Marsh?”

“Yes.”

“He used to write me letters; I mean, since this.  But it is a long time since the last came.  No doubt he is married now.  It would have been better if he had told me, and not just ceased to write.  I want Zillah to write to him for me; but she doesn’t like to.”

“Why do you think he is married?” Cecily asked.

“Isn’t it natural?  I’m not so foolish as to wish to prevent him.  It’s nothing to me now.  I should even be glad to hear of it.  He ought to marry some good-natured, ordinary kind of girl, who has money.  Of course you were right about his drawings; he was no artist, really.  But I had a liking for him.”

Cecily wondered whether it would be wise or unwise to tell what she knew.  The balance seemed in favour of holding her peace.  In a few minutes, Madeline moaned a little.

“You are in pain?”

“That’s nothing; pain, pain—­I find it hard to understand that life is anything but pain.  I can’t live much longer, that’s the one comfort.  Death doesn’t mean pain, but the end of it.  Yesterday I felt myself sinking, sinking, and I said, ‘Now this is the end,’ and I could have cried with joy.  But Zillah gave me something, and I came back.  That’s cruelty, you know.  They ought to help us to die instead of keeping us alive in pain.  If doctors had any sense they would help us to die; there are so many simple ways.  You see the little bottle with the blue label; look round; the little bottle with the measure near it.  If only it had been left within my reach!  They call it poison when you take too much of it; but poison means sleep and rest and the end of pain.”

Cecily listened as though some one spoke from beyond the grave; that strange voice made all the world unreal.

“Do you believe in a life after this?” asked Madeline, with earnestness.

“I know nothing,” was the answer.

“Neither do I. It matters nothing to me.  All I have to do is to die, and then whatever comes will come.  Poor Zillah does her best to persuade me that she does know.  I shall try to seem as if I believed her.  Why should I give her pain?  What does it matter if she is wrong?  She is a kind sister to me, and I shall pretend that I believe her.  Perhaps she is right?  She may be, mayn’t she?”