ing his eyes.

The next morning he went to see Richard. The young doctor was in the
Garden Room which he used as an office. It was on the ground floor of the
big house, with a deer's horns over the fireplace, an ancient desk in one
corner, a sideboard against the north wall. In days gone by this room had
served many purposes. Here men in hunting pink had gathered for the gay
breakfasts which were to fortify them for their sport. On the sideboard
mighty roasts had been carved, and hot dishes had steamed. On the round
table had been set forth bottles and glasses on Sheffield trays. Men ate
much and rode hard. They had left to their descendants a divided heritage
of indigestion and of strong sinews, to make of it what they could.

Geoffrey entering asked at once, "Why the Garden Room? There is no
garden."

"There was a garden," Richard told him, "but there is a tradition that a
pair of lovers eloped over the wall, and the irate father destroyed every
flower, every shrub, as if the garden had betrayed him."

"There's a story in that. Did the girl ever come back to find the garden
dead?"

"Who knows?" Richard said lightly; "and now, what's the matter with your
eyes?"

There was much the matter, and when Richard had made a thorough
examination he spoke of a specialist. "Have you ever had trouble with
them before?"

"Once, when I was a youngster. I thought I was losing my sight. I used to
open my eyes in the dark and think that the curse had come upon me. My
grandfather was blind."

"It is rarely inherited, and not in this form. But there might be a
predisposition. Anyhow, you'll have to stop work for a time."

"I can't stop work. My book is in the last chapters. And it is a great
book. I've never written a great book before. I can talk freely to you,
doctor. You know that we artists can't help our egotism. It's a disease
that is easily diagnosed."

Richard laughed. "What's the name of your book?"

"'Three Souls.' Anne Warfield gave me the theme."

As he spoke her name it was like a living flame between them. Richard
tried to answer naturally. "She ought to be able to write books herself."

Geoffrey shrugged. "She will live her life stories, not write them."

"Why not?"

"Because we men don't let such women live their own lives. We demand
their service and the inspiration of their sympathy. And so we won't let
them achieve. We make them light our torches. We are selfish beasts, you
know, in the last analysis