She sat upon his knees, because the window-seat was dusty, and because in this place of fled lovers she wanted to be held closely to his heart. The wind boomed and moaned, and the sun breaking through the clouds lit up the walls with a wild yellow light. Suddenly Pauline drew away from his arms. "Shadows went by the window," she cried. "Guy, I feel afraid. I feel afraid. There's a footstep." She was lily-white whose cheeks had but now been burning so fiercely. "Nonsense," he replied, half roughly. "It was that burst of sunshine." "Guy, there were shadows. Hark!" She nearly screamed, because footsteps were going down the stairs of the empty house. "It must have been the caretaker," said Guy. "I saw a white person. Guy, never, never let us come here again." "You don't seriously think you saw a ghost?" he asked. "Guy, how do I know? Come away into the air. We should never have come here. Oh, this room! I feel as if I should faint." "I'll see who it was," said Guy, springing up. "No, don't leave me. Wait for me. I'll come with you." They hurried down the stairs, and when they reached the pallid lawn they saw Margaret and Monica in their white coats disappearing among the yew-trees by the entrance. "There are your ghosts," said Guy, laughing. Yet, though Guy scoffed at her fears, Pauline was not sure that she would not have preferred a ghost to that disquieting passage of her sisters without hail or comment. Yet perhaps, after all, they had not seen her and Guy in that sinister small parlor. "Shall we catch them up?" he asked.