"Stop calling me names and I'll see what can be done."
"But it's part of my 'whimsical wit' to call you Willyum," she said grimly. "I understand that I am like that. People realise this when they read your articles, and immediately call to see if I'm true. I've read through nearly all your stories to-day, in between the visitors, and—and—"
I gripped her hand in silence.
"I'm losing all my friends," she mourned, touched by my sympathy, "even those who used to like me long ago. Girls who knew me at school say to themselves, 'Fancy poor old Janet being like that all the time, and we never knew!' and they rush down to see me again. They sit hopefully round me as long as they can bear it; then, after the breakdown, they go away indignant and never think kindly of me again."
She gloomed.
"And all the cousins and nice young men who used to think I was quite jolly have suddenly noticed how much jollier I might be if only I could say the things they say you say I say...."
"Hush, hush," I whispered; "have an aspirin."
"But it's quite true," she cried hopelessly. "And She's just what I ought to be. She says everything just in the right place. When I compare myself with Her, I know I'm not a bit the kind of person you admire, and—and it's no good pretending any longer. I'm not jealous, only—sort of misrubble."
She rose with a pale smile and, hushing my protestations, arrived at her conclusion.
"We must part," she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire and walking to the window; "I can't help it. I suppose I'm not good enough for you. You must be free to marry Her when we find Her. I too," she sighed, "must be free...."