of his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and⁠—no more children afterwards! Which to choose?⁠ ⁠… It had rained this last fortnight⁠—the river was very full, and in the water, collected round the little houseboat moored by his landing-stage, were many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves fell, lives drifted down⁠—Death! To decide about death! And no one to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn’t get it back. It left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves; barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying up there behind that windowpane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate! Make certain of her life! No decision⁠—a mere instinctive cry for help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she had been growing frightened, he had wondered.