"Ian Stafford is here—in this house?" she asked, with staring eyes. What inconceivable irony it all was! She could have shrieked with that laughter which is more painful far than tears.
"Yes, he is up-stairs. I made him come and help us—he knows the international game. He will help you, too. He is a good friend—you will know how good some day."
She went white and leaned against the table.
"No, I shall not need him," she said. "We have formed our committee."
"But when I am gone, he can advise you, he can—"
"Oh—oh!" she murmured, and swayed forward, fainting.
He caught her and lowered her gently into a chair.
"You are only mad," he whispered to ears which heard not as he bent over her. "You will be sane some day."