"You haven't forgotten Margaret, then?"
"Have you?" He became quite grave and pale.
"I! I shall never forget Margaret Capel."
Up till then he had been light and airy in manner, as if this visit and circumstance and poor me, who had been so near the Gates, were of little consequence.
"Did you think how much worse I wrote than she did, that I was no stylist?"
"Why do you say that?"
I was glad to see him and wished to keep him by my side. I thought what I was going to tell him would secure my object.
"She told me so herself" I shot at him, and watched to see how he would take it. "The last time I saw you, the night the pleurisy started, she sat over there by the fireside. We talked together confidentially, she said she knew I would write her story, and was sorry because I had no style." There was a flush on his forehead, he looked to where I said she sat.
"What else did she say?" He did not seem to doubt me or to be surprised.
"You believe I saw her, that it was not a dream?"
"There is an unexplored borderland between dreams and reality. Fever often bridges it. Your temperature was probably high. And I, and you,
