"I'm going to live, after all, they tell me."
"Of course you are," I answered cheerily. "It's the season for things to find they're going to live. The crocuses and aconite have already made the discovery."
She sighed. "The garden at Northlands will soon be beautiful. I love it in the spring. The dancing daffodils—"
"We'll have you down to dance with them," said I.
"It's strange that I want to live," she remarked after a pause. "At first I longed to die—that was why my recovery was so slow. But now—odd, isn't it?"
"Life means infinitely more than one's own sorrow, no matter how great it is," I replied gently.
"Yes," she assented. "I can live now for Adrian's memory."
I suppose most women in Doria's position would have said much the same. In ordinary circumstances one approves the pious aspiration. If it gives them temporary comfort, why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't they have it? But in Doria's case, its utterance gave me a kind of stab in the heart. By way of reply I patted her poor little wrist sympathetically.
"When will the book be out?" she asked.
"I'm afraid I don't quite know," said I.