the wrong place. It is a matter of
temperament, you see. You must have patience."

"Patience," repeated Dawney's voice, "is one thing; patience where there
is responsibility is another. I've not had a wink of sleep these last
two nights."

There was a faint, shrill swish of silk.

"Is he so very ill?"

Christian held her breath. The answer came at last.

"Has he made his will? With this trouble in the side again, I tell you
plainly, Mrs. Decie, there's little or no chance."

Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. What
was she about to do, then--to leave him dying!

XXV

On the following day Harz was summoned to the Villa. Mr. Treffry had
just risen, and was garbed in a dressing-suit, old and worn, which had a
certain air of magnificence. His seamed cheeks were newly shaved.

"I hope I see you well," he said majestically.

Thinking of the drive and their last parting, Harz felt sorry and
ashamed. Suddenly Christian came into the room; she stood for a moment
looking at him; then sat down.

"Chris!" said Mr. Treffry reproachfully. She shook her head, and did not
move; mournful and intent, her eyes seemed full of secret knowledge.

Mr. Treffry spoke:

"I've no right to blame you, Mr. Harz, and Chris tells me you came
to see me first, which is what I would have expected of you; but you
shouldn't have come back."

"I came back, sir, because I found I was obliged. I must speak out."

"I ask nothing better," Mr. Treffry replied.

Harz looked again at Christian; but she made no sign, sitting with her
chin resting on her hands.

"I have come for her," he said; "I can make my living--enough for both
of us. But I can't wait."

"Why?"

Harz made no answer.

Mr. Treffry boomed out again: "Why? Isn't she worth waiting for? Isn't
she worth serving for?"

"I can't expect you to understand me," the painter said. "My art is my
life to me. Do you suppose that if it wasn't I should ever have left my
village; or gone through all that I've gone through, to get as far even
as I am? You tell me to wait. If my thoughts and my will aren't free,
how can I work? I shan't be worth my salt. You tell me to go back to
England--knowing she is here, amongst you who hate me, a thousand
miles away. I shall know that there's a death fight going on in her and
outside her against me--you think that I can go on working under these
conditions. Others may be able, I am not. That's the plain truth. If