in the harder outlines of reality, there was standing the figure of a young man. How it was dressed he could not see, or did not care to notice, but when for a moment the mist cleared off its face, he recognized the strong likeness to himself, even as he had recognized the likeness to himself in the photograph which he had found in the cache. But here was no photograph: instead, mysteriously translated into outlines and features visible to mortal eyes, was the semblance of Martin himself. It wavered and flickered, like the blown flame of a candle, but it was there, standing at the corner of his table. And, as it spoke, he saw the mouth move and the throat throb.
"I have managed to come back, Archie," he said, "because you were in such trouble, and because you didn't understand the warning you had. Do you understand now?"
The whole explanation flashed on him.
"The dream?" he said. "The white statue of Helena and the worms?"
"Surely. It was odd you didn't understand. You only loved the white statue. You loathed what came out of it, just as you loathe what has come out of the white statue since."
Archie leaned forward, peering into the mist that at this moment quite enveloped the figure.
"But I love her, too, Martin," he cried. "I long for her."
Out of the mist came the unseen voice:
"You long for what she looks like," it said. "You hate what she is."
"That may be. But the whole thing makes me utterly miserable."
Table and figure, the white paper and the tray with syphon and whisky became suddenly visible.
"You must learn not to be miserable," said that compassionate mouth. "Be very patient, Archie.
