Mrs. Davencott rose and resumed her wrap, retained with her on the back of the chair. Lee met the pleasant decisiveness of her capable hand, the doctor grasped his fingers with a robust witticism; and he was replying to the Davencotts' geniality when he had a glimpse of Mrs. Grove's face turned slightly from him: the curve of her cheek met the pointed chin and the graceful contour of her exposed long throat; there was the shadow of a tormenting smile on the pale vermilion of her lips, in her half closed eyes; her hair, in that light, was black. A sensation of coldness, a spiritual shiver, went through Lee Randon; the resemblance that had eluded him was mercilessly clear--it was to the doll, to Cytherea. * * * * * When Dr. Davencott and his wife had gone Lee sank back into his chair, more disorganized by his culminating discovery than by any of the extraordinary conditions that had preceded it. Its quality of the unexpected, however, wasn't enough to account for the profound effect on him; that was buried in the secret of instinctive recognitions. “Well, the thing for me to do is to go to bed,” he said aloud, but it was no more than an unconvinced mutter, addressed to the indeterminate region of his feet. Savina Grove was standing by the door, in the place, the position, in which she had said good-bye to the Davencotts. Her flamboyant tulle skirt, contrasted with the tightly-fitting upper part of her dress, gave her, now, in the sombre crowded furnishings, the rich draped brocades, of the room, an aspect of mid-Victorian unreality. “It is for me, as well,” she agreed, but so long after he had spoken that the connection between their remarks was almost lost. However, neither of them made a movement to leave the drawing-room, Savina Grove returned slowly to her chair. “No one, I think, has ever found it out like that.” Her remark was without intelligible preliminary, but he grasped her meaning at once. “How you happened to stir it in me I have no idea--” she stopped and looked at him intently. “A terrible accident! I would have done anything, gone any distance, to avoid it. I am unable, with you, to pretend--that's curious--and that in itself gives me a feeling of helplessness. All sorts of impossible things are coming into my head to say to you. I mustn't.” Her voice was brittle. “There is no need for you to say what would make you miserable,” he replied. “I am not in a position to question you; at the same time I can't pretend--perhaps the safest thing of all--not to understand what, entirely against your will, I've seen. I am very much, very naturally, disturbed by it; but you have nothing to worry about.”