less brush of her skirts the hint of her watchings and waitings. One evening when, at his friend's table, he had lost himself in the depths of correspondence, he was made to start and turn by the suggestion that some one was behind him. Mrs. Doyne had come in without his hearing the door, and she gave a strained smile as he sprang to his feet. 'I hope,' she said, 'I haven't frightened you.'
'Just a little—I was so absorbed. It was as if, for the instant,' the young man explained, 'it had been himself.'
The oddity of her face increased in her wonder. 'Ashton?'
'He does seem so near,' said Withermore.
'To you too?'
This naturally struck him. 'He does then to you?'
She hesitated, not moving from the spot where she had first stood, but looking round the room as if to penetrate its duskier angles. She had a way of raising to the level of her nose the big black fan which she apparently never laid aside and with which she thus covered the lower half of her face, her rather hard eyes, above it, becoming the more ambiguous. 'Sometimes.'
'Here,' Withermore went on, 'it's as if he might at any moment come in. That's why I jumped just now. The time is so short since he really used to—it only was yesterday. I sit in his chair, I turn his books, I use his pens, I stir his fire, exactly as if, learning he would presently be back from a walk, I had come up here contentedly to wait. It's delightful—but it's strange.'
Mrs. Doyne, still with her fan up, listened with interest. 'Does it worry you?'
'No—I like it.'
She hesitated again. 'Do you ever feel as if he were—a—quite—a—personally in the room?'
'Well, as I said just now,' her companion laughed, 'on hearing you behind me I seemed to take it so. What do we want, after all,' he asked, 'but that he shall be with us?'
