I did look up. And I did see-- It was Lutetia. Spink, if you try to say those things that people always say--that it was imagination, that I was overwrought, that my mind, moving all the day among the facts and realities of Lutetia's life, suddenly projected a picture--I'll never speak to you again. There she sat, her elbow resting on the arm of her chair, her chin in her hand, looking at me. I can't tell you how long she stayed. But all the time she was there she looked at me. And all that time I looked at her. I don't think, Spink, I have ever guessed how much eyes can say. Her eyes said so much that I think I could write the whole rest of the night about them. Except that I'm not quite sure what they said. It was all entreaty; oh, blazing, blasting, blinding entreaty.... Of that I am sure. But what she asked of me I haven't the remotest idea. After a while ... something impelled me to look down at my book again. When I lifted my eyes Lutetia was gone. That wasn't all, Spink; for that night, or the next day-- But I'm going to try to keep to a consecutive story. I didn't go to bed immediately. I didn't feel like sleeping. You can understand it was considerable of a shock. And very thrilling. Literally thrilling! I shook. It didn't bother me an atom after it was over. I wasn't the least afraid. But I vibrated for hours. I walked four or five miles--where, I don't know. I must have passed the Fallows place, because I recall the scent of honeysuckle. But I assure you I seemed to be walking through the stars.... She is beautiful. I can't tell you how beautiful because I have no colors to give you; no flesh to go by. Perhaps she is not beautiful, but lovely. What queer things words are! I have called females _pretty_ and _stunning_ and even _fascinating_ and _beautiful_. I think I never called any woman _lovely_ before. I've been that young. But I'm not as young as I was yesterday. I'm a century, an age, an æon older. I was obsessed though. If you believe it, when I went to bed, I had only one idea in my mind--a hope that she would come back soon. She didn't come back soon--at least not that night. But somebody else did.... In the middle of the night, I suddenly found myself, wide-eyed and clear-minded, sitting upright in bed and listening to something. I don't know what I had heard, but I remember with perfect clearness--Spink, you tell me this is a dream and I'll murder you--what I immediately did and what I subsequently saw. I got up quite calmly and lighted a candle. Then I opened the door. Do you remember my writing you that the chamber, just back of the one I occupy, must have been the room of a child--Lutetia's little niece? The door of that room, of course, leads into the hall as mine does. As I stood there, shading my candle from the draft, that door opened and there emerged from the room--what do you suppose? A little girl.