"Will he ever come here--anywhere--again?" he asked suddenly. "Oh, Clive, I don't know." "Don't you know? Couldn't you find out?" "How? I don't know how to find out. I never try to inquire." "Isn't there some way?" "I don't really know, Clive. How could I know?" "But when you see such people--shadows--shapes--" "Yes.... They are not shadows." "Do they seem real?" "Why, yes; as real as you are." "Athalie, how _can_ they be?" "They are to me. There is nothing ghostly about them." For a moment it almost seemed to her as though he resented her clear seeing; then he said: "Have you always been able to see--this way?" "As long as I can remember." "And you have never tried to cultivate the power?" "I had rather you did not call it that." "But it is a power.... Well, call it faculty, then. Have you?" "No. I told you once that I did not wish to see more clearly than others. It is all involuntary with me." "Would you try to cultivate it because I ask you to?" "Clive!" "Will you, Athalie?" The painful colour mantled her face and neck and she turned and looked away from him as though he had said a shameful thing. He continued, impatiently: "Why do you feel that way about it? Why should you not cultivate such a delicate and wonderful sense of perception? Why are you reluctant? What reason is there for you to be ashamed?" "I don't know why." "There is no reason! If in you there happen to be faculties sensitive beyond ours, senses more complex, more exquisitely attuned to what others are blind and deaf to, intuitions that to us seem miraculous, a spirituality, perhaps, more highly developed, what is there in that to cause you either embarrassment or concern? That in certain individualities such is the case is now generally understood and recognised. You happen to be one of them." She looked up at him very quietly, but still flushed. "Why do you wish me to try--make any effort to develop this--thing?" "So that--if you _could_ see him again--and if, perhaps, he had anything to say to me--" "I understand." "Will you try, Athalie?" "I'll try--if you wish it. And if I can learn how to try." Had he asked her to strip her gown from her shoulders under his steady gaze, it had been easier than the promise she gave him. * * * * * And now the hour had come for him to bid her good-bye. He said that he and his mother would not remain abroad for more than the summer. He said he would write often; spoke a little more vaguely of seeing her as soon as he returned; drew her cool, white hands together and kissed them, laid his cheek against them for a moment, eyes closed wearily. The door remained ajar behind him after he had gone. Lingering, her hand heavy on the knob, she listened to the last echo of the elevator as it dropped into lighted depths below. Then, very far away, an iron grille clanged. And that ended it.