Chapter XV
UP-STAIRS the child, wrapped about with hot typhoid, raved in many languages. His mother nursed him, and a doctor watched. His ravings were all of a little girl named Lettice. He had a photograph of her on a chair by the head of his bed. She was an impudent rogue of a child of twelve, with straight, dark hair cut off square at the shoulders like a page's; she had mischievous, puckered eyes, and grinned like a pussy-cat. She looked as healthy as a butterfly.
"Won't you be faithful, Lettice—won't you?" wailed the sick child.
It was sweating hot. Beauling, in white pajamas that clung to him in dark patches as if his body was sucking at the silk, bent over his open valise, and packed it for a long sea voyage. He was going
