After sitting quietly for some moments I got up again and, seeming to stand at the doorway and looking into the farther room, I found myself nodding my head and frowning and saying:
"You'll pay me more than that—You'll pay me more—You'll pay me more than that—You'll pay me more."
Who was going to pay and what they were going to pay for was a mystery to me.
I left him at that for I had to go out to get some fruit and I lost him.
But the next morning I woke singing a quaint little song in some foreign language. I listened to it, charmed at the quaintness of the rhythm and accent, and the capricious spirit of it.
Who was it? What was it?
I jumped out of bed and dressed, with the song running through my head even when I did not allow my lips to form the syllables and the tune to express itself.
It was nothing I had ever heard and in a language I could not quite understand—a sort of patois.
I had some things to put together before I went to work, and busied myself and forgot the thing for the moment.
But in a pause I found myself moving my hands about in gestulation and once more the little song came forth.
I stood up and found myself singing the most charming little things, all the piquancy of movement, modulation, rhythm and spirit of a charming actress of opera bouffe.
Then I threw up my hands and clasped them.
"Oh, la pitie de moi! la pitie de moi!" came the words and a rush of the little patois.
I had to hurry out but I supposed I was what was called "possessed."
I called this Presence "The Spanish Actress," and rather enjoyed taking her with me on my rounds—Little snatches of the song came tripping out now and then and I mentally conversed with my unseen companion.
I noticed that my eyes, all that day, were attracted to the colour red—Anything red on the road drew my eyes to it and I seemed to have a feeling of gay pleasure. I found myself walking along with a grace of movement and little quick gestures and charming little dignified movements of the head that were quite foreign to me. I handed my ticket to the guard with charming dignity.
I had dashed off a letter to Tony in the morning, to say that I was acting a Spanish actress and, if he cared to come that evening, I would sing him some of the songs.
I did not like my companion so much as the day wore on. I had to choose some books and she felt awfully bored. I could feel her impatience.
She told me all about herself—that she had died in Paris
