He recalled, quite clearly, the incident in which his friendship with little Maggie Hutchinson figured so dramatically. Again, with the photographic trick of memory, he conjured up the Darjeeling valley. He saw the green slopes dotted here and there with planters’ bungalows, the tea-gardens, resembling gooseberry bushes in the first tender shoots, the winding roads, the tropical foliage. Yielding to a whimsical surprise at the accuracy of his impressions, he endeavored to reconstruct some of the incidents of the raid, but he quickly discovered that beyond following events in ordered sequence of recollection he could achieve nothing outside the range of what appeared to be a very precise and realistic memory. “I wonder where Miss Margaret is now,” he murmured, with a smiling glance skywards. “She must be a demure young lady of eighteen or thereabouts. I think my mother said she was in Berlin, having developed a great talent for playing the violin. Berlin! That is a long way from Oxford, and Maggie is abed, sound asleep, little dreaming that a young man in England is picturing her in a Kate Greenaway costume of fourteen years ago.” So in this fanciful mood, the notion suddenly seized him that he would like to see Maggie Hutchinson. What he really meant was that he would be glad to meet her again, and exchange juvenile reminiscences of early days in India. It is important to insist on this point, as his undoubted intention, or desire, when contrasted with that which did really happen, goes far to prove telegnomy a sense and not a mental state. Remember, he fancied the girl was in Berlin and in bed, and, being an extremely considerate person, Karl would certainly not have wished to disturb her, even if such a thing were sanely possible. He thought the external light fled with exceeding rapidity. There was an instant’s gloom, and then he was looking at a sunlit scene. The surroundings were quite novel to his eyes. He seemed to be standing on a spacious veranda of a very fine hotel. The flooring, the walls, the pillars, were all of wood, and Karl had never seen a hotel built of that material. Hundreds of well-dressed people were seated around small tables, waiters were flitting to and fro; on an empty table near him he noticed an “engaged” card, and even a _menu du diner_ of the previous day. (It was nearly one o’clock when he went to the window.) Beyond a crowded lawn were a theater, a band-stand, and a raised promenade bordering the sea. He stared about him with the frank curiosity of the stranger. On the right, the hotel buildings shut off the view, but, on the left, the veranda ran a long way. It was bounded, apparently, by the turnstiles of a railway station, and he read, quite distinctly, a prominent notice: “Trains depart for New York every ten minutes between 6 p.m. and midnight.”