‘You have been ill; haven’t you?’ she asked, rather repulsed.

‘Yes,’ he replied coldly.

They had sat down under the willow tree, and were looking at the pond, from their retreat on the island.

‘Has it made you frightened?’ she asked.

‘What of?’ he asked, turning his eyes to look at her. Something in him, inhuman and unmitigated, disturbed her, and shook her out of her ordinary self.

‘It IS frightening to be very ill, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘It isn’t pleasant,’ he said. ‘Whether one is really afraid of death, or not, I have never decided. In one mood, not a bit, in another, very much.’