She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “If they matter to you, they matter. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly. But then the features changed. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her. His fingers closed upon her hand. ‘Precisely. Am I going to die?” “I am afraid that you are in a dangerous state,” Courtlaw answered gravely. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish.
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