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had a temperature,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I seem to have caught a virus, or something——’ Mavis began to struggle for breath, and the sound that she made – how can I describe it? – was as if she had been caught at that fine point between breathing-in and breathing-out. She agonised, at last, in a convulsive combination of coughing and sneezing.
    ‘The doctor says this has something to do with atmospheric pressure,’ I told her. ‘As soon as he gives permission , I’ll take you home. I’m sorry our little holiday turned out so wretchedly.’
    Mavis said: ‘Please, Rod, let it be soon! I can’t breathe here…. Do you very much mind not kissing me, Rod? This might be catching. Yes, that’s it – it might be catching . Do you mind awfully leaving me alone a bit? Pretty please?’
    I had to say: ‘Look, Mavis – did you mean what you said last night about loving Abaloni?’
    She became angry at this, and cried: ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, do try to be civilised just for once in your life! Please leave me alone, Rod. Sort of go away, kind of, for the moment; and tomorrow, perhaps.’
    So I left her, and went to see the doctor. He handed me a cablegram. It was from my uncle’s solicitor, Mr Coote. My uncle, Sir Arnold Arnold, had died suddenly in Paris: would I, his heir and executor, return to London at my earliest convenience?
    When I read this, I put my head between my hands and sat for a while rocking to and fro in deep grief. Then this grief was overlaid with black fear. Was i
t I
who killed him? I wondered. But I reassured myself – this could not be: oysters would not be in season untilthe first of September. So I went back to Mavis’s bedside .
    ‘Oh, please, Rod——’ she began.
    ‘– I must go back to England immediately,’ I said. ‘My uncle’s dead.’
    Her face was radiant as she cried: ‘Oh, how – terrible! Oh, I’m so – sorry!’
    I could almost have killed her then. But I stooped to kiss her. I hope I shall not long remember – I am sure that I shall never forget – the quick little gesture of revulsion with which she turned away as soon as my lips touched her cheek. ‘Better hurry, Rod, darling,’ she said: and began to weep.
    ‘You’re crying!’ I said.
    ‘So are you,’ said she.
    ‘I loved the old man very much, I think,’ I said, ‘and you even more, Mavis. Until soon. Good-bye.’
    I arranged for transportation to the nearest airport. Before I left I sent for the woman who had given of her blood to my wife and, in genuine gratitude, put some money into her hand, and thanked her most warmly.
    She burst into tears and rushed out of the room.
    When I went to see Mr Coote in his office in Staple Inn, my worst fears were confirmed. Discreetly congratulating me upon my inheritance, which, even after death duties had been paid, would still leave me rich – Coote told me the story of my uncle’s death:
    ‘… As you no doubt know, the late Sir Arnold was of – de mortuis nil nisi bonum – an impatient, an impetuous disposition. Oh dear! In a nutshell: the oyster season being over, he resented having to live on “slops” – he said he’d be damned if he would, and said in Paris they served oysters all the year round. “And what thedevil’s the matter with a fat Portuguese oyster, damn it all?” Sir Arnold said.’
    ‘Go on, Mr Coote!’
    ‘To proceed … Sir Arnold went to Paris. He went straight from the train to Fratelli’s Restaurant, ordered three dozen of the finest Portuguese oysters and half a bottle of wine. He ate the oysters, drank the wine, and collapsed in a convulsion; a sort of asthmatic convulsion, but of the most violent kind. And this, I regret to say, was too much for his poor heart…. Now, please, oh, please, you really must pull yourself together! … Dunhill! A glass of water, quick!——’
    For, at this, I fainted.
    *
    The Victorian novelists used to call it a ‘brain fever’. Now, I