E Phillips Oppenheim

The Mischief-Maker E Phillips Oppenheim

The girl who was dying lay in an invalid chair piled up with cushions in a sheltered cornerof the lawn. The woman who had come to visit her had deliberately turned away her headwith a murmured word about the sunshine and the field of buttercups. Behind them wasthe little sanitarium, a gray stone villa built in the style of a château, overgrown withcreepers, and with terraced lawns stretching down to the sunny corner to which the girlhad been carried earlier in the day. There were flowers everywhere-beds of hyacinths, and borders of purple and yellow crocuses. A lilac tree was bursting into blossom, thebreeze was soft and full of life. Below, beyond the yellow-starred field of which the womanhad spoken, flowed the Seine, and in the distance one could see the outskirts of Paris."The doctor says I am better," the girl whispered plaintively. "This morning he was quitecheerful. I suppose he knows, but it is strange that I should feel so weak-weaker even dayby day. And my cough-it tears me to pieces all the time."The woman who was bending over her gulped something down in her throat and turnedher head. Although older than the invalid whom she had come to visit, she was young andvery beautiful. Her cheeks were a trifle pale, but even without the tears her eyes werealmost the color of violets."The doctor must know, dear Lucie," she declared. "Our own feelings so often mean nothingat all."The girl moved a little uneasily in her chair. She, also, had once been pretty. Her hair wasstill an exquisite shade of red-gold, but her cheeks were thin and pinched, her complexionhad gone, her clothes fell about her. She seemed somehow shapeless.