"There was a garden," Richard told him, "but there is a tradition that a pair of lovers eloped over the wall, and the irate father destroyed every flower, every shrub, as if the garden had betrayed him."
"There's a story in that. Did the girl ever come back to find the garden dead?"
"Who knows?" Richard said lightly; "and now, what's the matter with your eyes?"
There was much the matter, and when Richard had made a thorough examination he spoke of a specialist. "Have you ever had trouble with them before?"
"Once, when I was a youngster. I thought I was losing my sight. I used to open my eyes in the dark and think that the curse had come upon me. My grandfather was blind."
"It is rarely inherited, and not in this form. But there might be a predisposition. Anyhow, you'll have to stop work for a time."
"I can't stop work. My book is in the last chapters. And it is a great book. I've never written a great book before. I can talk freely to you, doctor. You know that we artists can't help our egotism. It's a disease that is easily diagnosed."
Richard laughed. "What's the name of your book?"
"'Three Souls.' Anne Warfield gave me the theme."
As he spoke her name it was like a living flame between them. Richard tried to answer naturally. "She ought to be able to write books herself."