"That's right," he said. "Now we will have to sit rather close together. There's only one stone and the grass is most awfully wet. Every three minutes or so I'll get up and shout Dunbar's name in case he is wandering about quite close to us." He stood up and, putting his hands to his mouth, shouted with all his might: "Dunbar! Dunbar! Dunbar!" He waited. There was no answer. Only the fog seemed to grow closer. He turned to her and said: "Don't you think the fog's clearing a little?" She shook her head. There was still a little quaver in her voice: "I'm afraid not. You're saying that to cheer me up. You needn't. I'm not frightened. Think how lucky I am to have you with me. You mightn't have come back. You might have missed your way for hours." When he thought of how nearly he had missed his way for ever and ever he trembled. He mustn't let his thoughts wander in those paths; he was here to make her feel happy and safe until Dunbar came. They sat down on the stone together, and he put his arm around her to hold her there and to keep her warm. "Now what shall we talk about?" she asked him. "Ourselves," he answered her. "We have a splendid opportunity. Here we are, cut off by the fog, away from every one in the world. We know nothing about one another, or almost nothing. We can scarcely see one another's faces. It is a wonderful opportunity." "Well, you tell me about yourself first." "Ah! there's the trouble. I'm so terribly dull. I've never been or thought or said anything interesting. I'm like thousands and thousands of people in this world who are simply shadows to everybody else." "Remember we're to tell the truth," she said. "No one ever honestly thinks that about themselves--that they are just shadows of somebody else. Every one has their own secret importance for themselves--at least, every one in our village had. People you would have supposed had _nothing_ in them, yet if you talked to them you soon saw that they fancied that the world would end if they weren't in it to make it go round." "Well, honestly, that isn't my opinion of myself," Harkness answered. "I don't think that I help the world to go round at all. Of course, I think that there have to be all the ordinary people in it like myself to appreciate all the doings and sayings of the others, the geniuses--to make the audience. There are so many things I don't care for." "What _do_ you care for?" "Oh, different things at different times--not permanently for much. Pictures--especially etchings--music, travel. But never very deeply or urgently, except for the etchings. . . . Until to-night," he suddenly added, lowering his voice. "Until to-night?"