Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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