Turnbull murmured some clumsy deprecation, and sat stolidly
smoking to collect his thoughts; the next instant he had all his
nerves engaged in the mere effort to sit still.

Across the clear space of cold silver and a pale lemon sky which
was left by the gap in the ilex-trees there passed a slim, dark
figure, a profile and the poise of a dark head like a bird's,
which really pinned him to his seat with the point of
coincidence. With an effort he got to his feet, and said with a
voice of affected insouciance: "By George! MacIan, she is
uncommonly like----"

"What!" cried MacIan, with a leap of eagerness that was
heart-breaking, "do you see her, too?" And the blaze came back
into the centre of his eyes.

Turnbull's tawny eyebrows were pulled together with a peculiar
frown of curiosity, and all at once he walked quickly across the
lawn. MacIan sat rigid, but peered after him with open and
parched lips. He saw the sight which either proved him sane or
proved the whole universe half-witted; he saw the man of flesh
approach that beautiful phantom, saw their gestures of
recognition, and saw them against the sunset joining hands.

He could stand it no longer, but ran across to the path, turned
the corner and saw standing quite palpable in the evening
sunlight, talking with a casual grace to Turnbull, the face and
figure which had filled his midnights with frightfully vivid or
desperately half-forgotten features. She advanced quite