Edward’s face came before Leila so vividly that she could hardly see the girl for the tortured shape of it.  Then the hedonist in her revolted against that ascetic vision.  Her worldly judgment condemned and deplored this calamity, her instinct could not help applauding that hour of life and love, snatched out of the jaws of death.  “Need he ever know?” she said.

“I could never lie to Daddy.  But it doesn’t matter.  Why should one go on living, when life is rotten?”

Outside the sun was shining brightly, though it was late October.  Leila got up from her knees.  She stood at the window thinking hard.

“My dear,” she said at last, “you mustn’t get morbid.  Look at me!  I’ve had two husbands, and—­and—­well, a pretty stormy up and down time of it; and I daresay I’ve got lots of trouble before me.  But I’m not going to cave in.  Nor must you.  The Piersons have plenty of pluck; you mustn’t be a traitor to your blood.  That’s the last thing.  Your boy would have told you to stick it.  These are your ‘trenches,’ and you’re not going to be downed, are you?”

After she had spoken there was a long silence, before Noel said: 

“Give me a cigarette, Leila.”

Leila produced the little flat case she carried.

“That’s brave,” she said.  “Nothing’s incurable at your age.  Only one thing’s incurable—­getting old.”

Noel laughed.  “That’s curable too, isn’t it?”

“Not without surrender.”

Again there was a silence, while the blue fume from two cigarettes fast-smoked, rose towards the low ceiling.  Then Noel got up from the divan, and went over to the piano.  She was still in her hospital dress of lilac-coloured linen, and while she stood there touching the keys, playing a chord now, and then, Leila’s heart felt hollow from compassion; she was so happy herself just now, and this child so very wretched!

“Play to me,” she said; “no—­don’t; I’ll play to you.”  And sitting down, she began to play and sing a little French song, whose first line ran:  “Si on est jolie, jolie comme vous.”  It was soft, gay, charming.  If the girl cried, so much the better.  But Noel did not cry.  She seemed suddenly to have recovered all her self-possession.  She spoke calmly, answered Leila’s questions without emotion, and said she would go home.  Leila went out with her, and walked some way in the direction of her home; distressed, but frankly at a loss.  At the bottom of Portland Place Noel stopped and said:  “I’m quite all right now, Leila; thank you awfully.  I shall just go home and lie down.  And I shall come to-morrow, the same as usual.  Goodbye!” Leila could only grasp the girl’s hand, and say:  “My dear, that’s splendid.  There’s many a slip—­besides, it’s war-time.”

With that saying, enigmatic even to herself, she watched the girl moving slowly away; and turned back herself towards her hospital, with a disturbed and compassionate heart.