Rudyard Kipling 197 Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he talked to himself? Maisie’s heart beat more wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began to feel his way across the room, touching each table and chair as he passed. Once he caught his foot on a rug, and swore, dropping on his knees to feel what the obstruction might be. Maisie remembered him walking in the Park as though all the earth belonged to him, tramping up and down her studio two months ago, and flying up the gangway of the Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was making her sick, and Dick was coming nearer, guided by the sound of her breathing. She put out a hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw him to herself, she did not know which. It touched his chest, and he stepped back as though he had been shot. “It’s Maisie!” said he, with a dry sob. “What are you doing here?” “I came — I came — to see you, please.” Dick’s lips closed firmly. “Won't you sit down, then? You see, I’ve had some bother with my eyes, and —” “T know. I know. Why didn’t you tell me?” “T couldn’t write.” “You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.” “What has he to do with my affairs?” “He — he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see you.” “Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can’t. I forgot.” “Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry! I’ve come to tell you, and — Let me take you back to your chair.” “Don’t! I’m not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything about it. ’'m no good now. I’m down and done for. Let me alone!” He groped back to his chair, his chest laboring as he sat down.