And the taciturn chauffeur, he too was changed--it was another individual; he sat there, smoking, his elbow on the table, discussing army matters (now obsolete), notable generals, long dead and gone, the hills and plains of India, the climate--that, at least, was unchanged--with extraordinary coolness and adaptability. The guest was playing the rôle of being his own father, with astounding success. And what a good-looking young fellow! she noticed his clear-cut features, the well set-on head, the fine frame, the distinguished looking brown hand that lay carelessly on the table. The scene was altogether amazing; this sudden recognition seemed to have aroused Jim from a long, long mental slumber. Was it a sign of recovery--or was it a symptom of the end? When at last Owen rose to go, Captain Ramsay made no effort to detain him, but sat, with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, lost in a reverie of ghastly vacuity. It was Mrs. Ramsay who accompanied her guest into the hall, and inquired, in her everyday manner-- “And when is the motor of Ottinge coming back?” “I am to fetch it to-morrow.” Then, in another voice, almost a whisper, she added-- “I am so grateful to you. My husband and your father seem to have been like brothers--and you really managed wonderfully. You have given Jim such pleasure, and, poor fellow, he has so little!” Her eyes were dim as she looked up, “Even I, who am with him always, see a change. I am afraid he is growing worse.” “Why not better?” asked Wynyard, with forced cheerfulness. “Have you seen a mental specialist?” “Oh yes, long ago; his condition is the result of sunstroke, and they said he--he ought to be--put away in an asylum; but of course his home is his asylum.” Her visitor was not so clear about this, and there was no doubt that now and then the captain’s eyes had an alarmingly mad expression. “Can you manage to come and see him occasionally, or is it asking too much?” “I’ll come with pleasure; I have my evenings off--the car never goes out at night, as you may know; but I’m only Owen Wynyard, late of the Red Hussars, in this house, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.” “Of course; and I shall be only too thankful to see you whenever you can spare us an hour,” and she opened the door and let him out.