"No," said Barbara; "he's an angel."
"That's just," said Fanny, "what makes me feel he's going to die…. I wish I were you, Barbara."
"Me?"
"Yes. You've really helped him. He could never have written his book without you. His poor book."
She sat stroking it. And suddenly a horrible memory overcame her, and she cried out:
"Oh, my God! And I've laughed at that, too!"
Barbara put her arm round her. "You didn't, darling. Well, if you did—it is a little funny, you know. I'm afraid I've laughed a bit."
"Oh, you—that doesn't matter. You helped to write it."
Then Barbara broke out. "Oh, don't, Fanny, don't, don't talk about his poor book. I can't bear it."
"We're both idiots," said Fanny. "Imbeciles."