Then, through the rumbling of the carriage wheels I thought I could again catch the sound of the distant horn. I tried--how I tried--to catch the feeling of early dawn, to feel again the tiny claws of the falcon upon my wrist. What hunting morning was that, so dim and far away? To where was I riding? With whom was I in love? And I was a man then, so it seemed to me. CHAPTER VIII THE DIMLY-PAINTED FACE At last we stopped at a lodge. I heard someone cry "Gate," a creaking noise, and then we bowled smoothly up a long avenue thick-set with trees. We stopped before a huge portico. Oh, that portico set with pillars. I almost sobbed. Was it to here that I had been riding with the falcon on my wrist? Look at the dull grey stone, the fluted pillars, the great oak door. Then the oaken door opened wide, a rush of lamplight filled the portico, and I saw an old butler with white hair waiting for me. As I entered the great hall set round with armour and galleries, the old butler bowed before me--he looked scared. I did not notice him. How could I notice anything? An ordinary woman might have shrieked aloud, but I--I neither shrieked nor swooned. I remember trying to take my gloves off, then I gave up the attempt, and followed a maid-servant up the broad staircase I knew so well, along the passage I knew so well, into a bedroom that had once been mine. I suppose you will think I am telling lies. Well, you can think so if you like, but people don't tell lies just for fun when they have a churchyard cough like mine, spitting blood every now and then, and knowing that every spot of blood is a seal on their death-warrant. I took off my bonnet and travelling cloak, looked at myself in the cheval glass, and then came down stairs. Supper was laid for me in the dining-room; _this_ room I did not know, not a bit. Perhaps, after all, thought I, the whole thing is a mistake, a fancy. If I had been here before I ought to recognise the dining-room of all rooms. Then a thought struck me, and I asked the maid servant who was waiting-- "Has this room always formed part of the house; I mean, has it always been used as a dining-room?" "Oh no, ma'am, it was built by Mr Arthur." "Added on to the house?" "Yes, ma'am." That sounded queer, didn't it? "How long ago was it built?" "About sixty years I believe, ma'am." Sixty years, oh, I was riding with that falcon on my wrist ages before that. Do you know that the fact of my _not_ recognising this room impressed me more than the fact of my having recognised all the other things? After supper I was sitting at the table thinking, when I heard someone softly entering the room behind me. I turned and saw the butler with white hair; he held a book in his hand. "Please, ma'am, Mr Wilder asked me to give you this." "Mr Wilder?" "Yes, ma'am, he wrote from London." "Thanks."