that she gave up the simple life she was living when you first knew
her, and went upon the stage. The life was too strenuous for her. She
broke down, took no care of herself, developed a cough and alas!
tuberculosis."

The man sighed. He had adopted an expression of abstract sympathy.

"A terrible disease," he murmured.

"A terrible disease indeed," Madame Christophor repeated. "Do you not
understand what I mean when I tell you that she is dying of it? Very
likely she will not live a week--perhaps not a day. She lies there
alone in the garden of the hospital and she is afraid. There are none
who knew her, whom she cares for, to take her into their arms and to
bid her have no fear. Is it not your place to do this? You have held
her in your arms in life. Don't you see that it is your duty to cheer
her a little way on this last dark journey?"

The man threw away his cigarette and moved to the mantelpiece, where he
helped himself to a fresh one from the box.

"Madame," he said, "I perceive that you are a sentimentalist."

She did not speak--she could not. She only looked at him.

"Death," he continued, lighting his cigarette, "is an ugly thing. If it
came to me I should probably be quite as much afraid--perhaps
more--than any one else. But it has not come to me just yet. It has
come, you tell me, to little Lucie. Well, I am sorry, but there is
nothing I can do about it. I have no intention whatever of making