Then she went below. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. Creative work appeals to me wonderfully. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. She had not even endorsed it. “If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. Is that it? I thought this very pretty. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. We are off for a second honeymoon. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. “Now replace the stone, my child.
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