a bit of playful masquerade.

'I'm not very well,'said Paul, with a frog-like roop. 'I've been down to
the theatre, and Walton has sent me home again. I'm afraid I can't quite
manage to get upstairs.'

He did not look at Claudia, but he was conscious of her gaze, and he
knew somehow that there was fright in her eyes.

Two of the boarders engineered him to his room, and one undressed
him whilst the other ran for rum and cayenne-pepper. They were all
theatrical folk in the house, and kindly in case of trouble, as their
tribe is always. Paul was put to bed, and had extra blankets heaped
upon him, and a fire was lit in the grate. He was dosed with hot
rum-and-water and the cayenne pills, and was then left, first to grow
maudlin, and next to fall into a sleep which was full of monstrous
dreams. At one time he lay in a great cleft between two hills, and
stones rolled down upon him, causing him dull pain; then the stones
formed themselves into a fence--a kind of rough arch on which other
stones battered without ceasing till he was walled in thickly. At
another time he had to climb up an endless hill, with hot chains about
his loins and knees.

Somebody came into his room with a candle, and the light awoke him. It
was one of his fellow-boarders back from the theatre, with news that it
was nearly midnight. He forced more hot rum on the patient, and sat with
him until he was sound asleep. The liquor did its work, and he slept
without dreams until daylight. He strove to rise and dress, but the task
was beyond him, and there was nothing left but to lie and stare at the
ceiling, and to say to himself over and over again, without a touch of
interest or feeling: 'It's good-bye to Claudia.' The landlady came to
see him, and found him burning and shivering, and complaining of the
bitter cold. She went away, and came back again with a doctor, who told
him cheerfully that he was in for rheumatic fever, big or little, as
sure as a gun.

'But he's young, ma'am,' said the doctor--'he's young, and we shall pull
him through.'

'Can he be moved?' asked the landlady.

'Moved? No, possibly not for weeks.'

'Have you any money, Mr. Armstrong?' said the landlady, 'or shall I
write to your friends?'

'There's fifty-one pounds in my dressing-bag,' croaked Paul. 'When
you've buried me and paid your bill, send the balance to my father.'

'Buried you?' said the doctor. 'You don't suppose you're going to peg
out, do you?'

'I hope so,' sai