She has taken ' Carbies ' ; call upon her at once ... let me know what you think . . . don't be misled by her high spirits . . ." He read it half aloud and half to himself. He seemed to expect my sympathy. " I used to come here so often, two or three times a day sometimes." "Was she ill?" The question was involuntary. Margaret Capel was nothing to me. " Part of the time. Most of the time." " Did you do her any good ? " Apparently he had no great sense or sensitive- ness of professional dignity. There was a strange light in his eyes, brilliant yet fitful, conjured up by the question. It was the first time he seemed to recognize my existence as a separate entity. He TWILIGHT 9 looked directly at me, instead of gazing about him reminiscently. " I don't know. I did my best. When she was in pain I stopped it ... sometimes. She did not always like the medicines I prescribed. And you? You are suffering from neuritis, your sister says. That may mean anything. Where is it ? " " In my legs." I did not mean him to attend me; I had come away to rid myself of doctors. And anyway I liked an older man in a professional capacity. But his eccentricity of manner or deportment, his want of interest in me and absorption in his former patient, his ill-cut clothes and unlikeness to his brother professionals, were a little variety, and I found myself answering his questions. " Have you tried Kasemol ? It is a Japanese cure very efficacious; or any other paint? " " I am no artist." He smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and his smile was pleasant. " You've got a nurse, or a maid ? " " A maid. I'm not ill enough for nurses." " Good. Did you know this was once a nursing- home? After she found that out she could never bear the place . . ." He was talking again about the former occupant of the house. My ailment had not held his atten- tion long. io TWILIGHT " She said she smelt ether and heard groaning in the night. I suppose it seems strange to you I should talk so much about her? But Carbies with- out Margaret Capel . . . You do mind ? " " No, I don't. I daresay I shall be glad to hear all about her one day, and the story. I see you have a story to tell. Of course I remember her now. She wrote a play or two, and some novels that had quite a little vogue at one time. But I'm tired to-night." " So short a journey ought not to tire you." He was observing me more closely. " You look over- driven, too fine-drawn. We must find out all about it. Not to-night of course. You must not look upon this as a professional visit at all, but I could not resist coming. You would understand, if you had known her. And then to see you sitting at her table, and in the same attitude . . ." He left off abruptly. So the regard I had flattered myself to be personal was merely reminiscent. " You don't write too, by any chance, do you ? That would be an extraordinary coincidence." He might as well have asked Melba if she sang. Blundering fool! I was better known than Margaret Capel had ever been. Not proud of my position because I have always known my limita- tions, but irritated nevertheless by his ignorance, and wishful now to get rid of him. " Oh, yes ! I write a little sometimes. Sorry my TWILIGHT ii position at the table annoys you. But I don't play the piano." He seemed a little surprised or hurt at my tone, as he well might, and rose to go. I rose, too, and held out my hand. After all I did not write under my own name, so how could he have known unless Ella had told him? When he shook hands with me he made no pretence of feel- ing my pulse, a trick of the trade which I particu-larly dislike. So I smiled at him. " I am a little irritable."

Irritability is characteristic of the complaint. 
And I have bored you horribly, I fear. But it was 
such an excitement coming up here again. May I 
come in the morning and overhaul you? My 
partner, Dr. Lansdowne, for whom your sister's 
letter was really intended, is away. Does that 
matter ? " 

" I shouldn't think so." 

" He is a very able man," he said seriously. 

" And are you not ? " By this time my legs were 
aching badly and I wanted to get rid of him. 

" In the morning, then." 

He seemed as if he would have spoken again, 
but thought better of it. He had certainly a per- 
sonality, but one that I was not sure I liked. He 
took an inconceivable time winding up or starting 
his machine, the buzz of it was in my ears long 
after he went off, blowing an unnecessary whistle, 
making my pain unbearable. 



12 TWILIGHT 

I dined in bed and treated myself to an extra 
dose of nepenthe on the excuse of the fatigue of my 
journey. The prescription had been given to me by 
one of those eminent London physicians of whom 
I hope one day to make a pen-and-ink drawing. It 
is an insidious drug with varying effects. That 
night I remember the pain was soon under weigh 
and the strange half-wakeful dreams began early. 
It was good to be out of pain even if one knew it to 
be only a temporary deliverance. The happiness of a 
recovered amiability soon became mine, after which 
conscience began to worry me because I had been 
ungrateful to my sister and had run away from her, 
and been rude to her doctor, that strange doctor. I 
smiled in my drowsiness when I thought of him and 
his beloved Margaret Capel, a strange devotee at a 
forgotten shrine, in his cutaway checked coat and 
the baggy trousers. But the boots might have come 
from Lobb. His hands were smooth, of the right 
texture. Evidently the romance of his life had been 
this Margaret Capel. 

So this place had been a nursing-home, and when 
she knew it she heard groans and smelt ether. Her 
books were like that : fanciful, frothy. She had 
never a straightforward story to tell. It was years 
since I had heard her name, and I had forgotten 
what little I knew, except that I had once been 
resentful of the fuss the critics had made over her. 
I believed she was dead, but could not be sure. 



TWILIGHT 13 

Then I thought of Death, and was glad it had no 
terrors for me. No one could go on living as I 
had been doing, never out of pain, without seeing 
Death as a release. 

A burning point of pain struck me again, and 
because I was drugged I found it unbearable. Be- 
fore it was too late and I became drowsier I roused 
myself for another dose. To pour out the medicine 
and put the glass down without spilling it was 
difficult, the table seemed uneven. Later my 
brain became confused, and my body comfort- 
able. 

It was then I saw Margaret Capel for the first 
time, not knowing who she was, but glad of her 
appearance, because it heralded sleep. Always 
before the drug assumed its fullest powers, I saw 
kaleidoscopic changes, unsubstantial shapes, things 
and people that were not there. Wonderful things 
sometimes. This was only a young woman in a 
grey silk dress, of old-fashioned cut, with puffed 
sleeves and wide skirts. She had a mass of fair 
hair, blonde cendre, and with a blue ribbon snooded 
through it. At first her face was nebulous, after- 
wards it appeared with a little more colour in it, 
and she had thin and tremulous pink lips. She 
looked plaintive, and when our eyes met she 
seemed a little startled at seeing me in her bed. 
The last thing I saw of her was a wavering smile, 
rather wonderful and alluring. I knew at once 



14 TWILIGHT 

that she was Margaret Capel. But she was quickly 
replaced by two Chinese vases and a conventional 
design in black and gold. I had been too liberal 
with that last dose of nepenthe, and the result was 
the deep sleep or unconsciousness I liked the least 
of its effects, a blank passing of time. 

The next morning, as usual after such a debauch, 
I was heavy and depressed, still drowsy but without 
any happiness or content. I had often wondered I 
could keep a maid, for latterly I was always either 
irritable or silent. Not mean, however. That has 
never been one of my faults, and may have been the 
explanation. Suzanne asked how I had slept and 
hoped I was better, perfunctorily, without waiting 
for an answer. She was a great fat heavy French- 
woman, totally without sympathetic quality. I told 
her not to pull up the blinds nor bring coffee until 
I rang. 

" I am quite well, but I don't want to be bothered. 
The servants must do the housekeeping. If Dr. 
Kennedy calls say I am too ill to see him." 

I often wish one could have dumb servants. But 
Suzanne was happily lethargic and not argumenta- 
tive. I heard afterwards that she gave my message 
verbatim to the doctor : " Madame was not well 
enough to see him," but softened it by a sugges- 
tion that I would perhaps be better tomorrow and 
perhaps he would come again. His noisy machine 
and unnecessary horn spoiled the morning