l be all finished."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. We human beings go straight like sheep to our natural
destiny."

"But--that is fatalism."

"No, not fatalism: insight into temperament. Fatalists believe that your
life is arranged for you beforehand from without; willy-nilly, you MUST
act so. I only believe that in this jostling world your life is mostly
determined by your own character, in its interaction with the characters
of those who surround you. Temperament works itself out. It is your own
acts and deeds that make up Fate for you."

For some months after this meeting neither Hilda Wade nor I saw anything
more of the Le Geyts. They left town for Scotland at the end of the
season; and when all the grouse had been duly slaughtered and all the
salmon duly hooked, they went on to Leicestershire for the opening of
fox-hunting; so it was not till after Christmas that they returned to
Campden Hill. Meanwhile, I had spoken to Dr. Sebastian about Miss Wade,
and on my recommendation he had found her a vacancy at our hospital. "A
most intelligent girl, Cumberledge," he remarked to me with a rare burst
of approval--for the Professor was always critical--after she had been
at work for some weeks at St. Nathaniel's. "I am glad you introduced
her here. A nurse with brains is such a valuable accessory--unless, of
course, she takes to THINKING. But Nurse Wade never THINKS; she is a
useful instrument--does what she's told, and carries out one's orders
implicitly."

"She knows enough to know when she doesn't know," I answered, "which is
really the rarest kind of knowledge."

"Unrecorded among young doctors!" the Professor retorted, with his
sardonic smile. "They think they understand the human body from top to
toe, when, in reality--well, they might do the measles!"

Early in January, I was invited again to lunch with the Le Geyts. Hilda
Wade was invited, too. The moment we entered the house, we were both of
us aware that some grim change had come over it. Le Geyt met us in the
hall, in his old genial style, it is true; but still with a certain
reserve, a curious veiled timidity which we had not known in him.
Big and good-humoured as he was, with kindly eyes beneath the shaggy
eyebrows, he seemed strangely subdued now; the boyish buoyancy had gone
out of him. He spoke rather lower than was his natural key, and welcomed
us warmly, though less effusively than of old. An irreproachable
housemaid, in a spotless cap,