A youth, straight, rhythmic, with his profile sharp and his mouth a shadow in the white of his face, and his eye an impalpable fire. His hair is a tangle of shadows like the last embers in a hearth. Now he is white, dazzlingly crystalline, across the black of the night, across the gaze of our eyes! He passes bearing toward the left. He disappears. Mildred speaks: “He has gone into the other room.” And all of us, not knowing how we know, know she speaks the truth. We turn about and see each other, and rejoice seeing ourselves so palpable in the warm, shut room. “He is in the other room.” “The hall is long, and the door is shut that leads into the other room.” My mother moves to the door. As she puts her hand on the key she shudders. It is a terrible thing for me to see the lovely and proud flesh of my mother broken in a shudder. But she turns the key. She moves, as if blown by a wind, back to among us. “Now it is locked,” she says. We are solid and warm in the room that is locked.... Mildred is looking at me; I feel her eyes, and do not want to meet them. I am afraid to meet them.--Mildred, what now is in your eyes as in your voice that sent me to spy on the night? Sudden, from the silence, they all speak ... all save Mildred and me. “Well, we have locked the door,” my mother says. “What have we seen?” says father. “I have heard no one say what we have seen. We have seen nothing.” “Let’s get back,” says Mr. Fayn, “to our game.” “These phenomena,” warns Doctor Stein, “are beyond our grasp. Doubtless because they are the mere reflections of perfectly clear phenomena. We try to grasp the reflections, and of course we fail.” They are cool and calm, and determined. “Well--whatever--we have locked the door.” Philip is passionate. He has forgotten all else. He is alone with his love. “Mildred,” I hear him call. I turn, and I meet Mildred’s eyes at last. Philip’s hands clasp her wrists that are tender like the stems of a long flower. Her face is close to his, her body is close to his: but her eyes touch mine. “Mildred, my love--Mildred!” murmurs Philip. Her wrists lie in his hands and her face is near his lips. But her eyes are steadfast on me. “In the other room?” I ask, as if corroborating. Her eyes do not move. I nod. And I say: “I am going to the other room, to see.” Philip’s hands do not stir in their tender clasp. But my mother, who was once more seated, jumps to her feet. “No!” “Why?” ... The others merely turn and look. “What folly!” “And what for?” Mildred’s eyes are on my eyes. I am happy. Her eyes do not know that Philip’s hands are on her hands. I want only her eyes. Her face is white in its gold maze of curls. I pass her. I turn the key of the door back in the lock. I face about with my hand upon the doorknob. --Why do they let me go so easily?