At noon next day when I called, I found Boris walking restlessly about his studio.
“Geneviève is asleep just now,” he told me, “the sprain is nothing, but why should she have such a high fever? The doctor can’t account for it; or else he will not,” he muttered.
“Geneviève has a fever?” I asked.
“I should say so, and has actually been a little lightheaded at intervals all night. The idea!—gay little Geneviève, without a care in the world—and she keeps saying her heart’s broken, and she wants to die!”
My own heart stood still.