At a later day, in a conversation which Morosine had with her, he permitted himself a reference to the Museum. “You go no more? They've done their work--the Three?” She smiled upon him, looking up from a little blue-covered book which lay half-cut upon her lap. It had arrived by the post that morning without message, or even inscription. But it was dedicated, she observed, “To the Fairest,” and had smiled wisely to herself, observing it. A finger in the book, she answered Morosine. “Yes, they've done their work. I'm much happier now. I've thrown up my arms, you see. I'm drowning.” She suddenly blushed, to remember her dream; and he perceived it. “Drowning?” he asked. “Drifting with the tide,” she explained. “And I like it.” It was on his tongue to refer to _Tristan_, but--such was her hardihood--she saved him the trouble. “I was fearfully excited with the opera. During the performance, and after it.” His heart beat high. “You were not more so than I was,” he said, looking at her. “I thought of things possible and impossible. I had a vision.” So had she had a vision, whose force was such that she could not continue to talk of such things. She had flashed her eyes upon him vividly for a moment, but was compelled to turn them away. He read in them a wild surmise; he thought that she understood him and was perturbed--perturbed, but not displeased. The bustling entry of Chevenix, unannounced, prevented him from pursuing his campaign. Chevenix was gay. “Hulloa, Sancie--this is ripping. I say, I have something frightfully interesting to tell you.” Then he saw Morosine. “Hulloa, Alexis, is that you? Now we'll sit each other out, and Sancie won't have her news.” “But I hope I shall,” she cried. “I haven't got a secret in the world. Don't go, Prince, please. Mr. Chevenix shall tell you the news too. I haven't the faintest idea.” “It's something you want to know very badly. At least, I should think you did. It's not Nevile's address.” She took him gaily. “I don't want to know that at all, if it's a new one. I have three already.” “Perhaps,” said Morosine, with a friendly look, “it's to cancel some of them.” She held up a book. “Is that what you mean? Do look. _Songs,_ by S. Glyde. Did you mean to tell me of that?” Chevenix stared. “The poet Glyde? No. By Jove, though, not a bad shot. I referred, my dear, to the poet Senhouse.” She received that full in the face. She paled, then coloured. Her heart leaped, then stood still. She spelt with her blue eyes, “Tell me.” Chevenix peered at her. “Thought I should fetch you, my dear. The poet Senhouse is run to ground, and I'm going to see him. That's all.”