"Excuse me, please! Excuse me, please! They told me there was being an English _artiste_ on the train." That voice reproduced so many times by Sylvia at the Pierian Hall was the voice of Concetta and, turning round, she saw her. "Concetta!" The girl drew in her breath sharply. "How was you knowing me? My name is Queenie Walters. How was you calling me Concetta? Ah, the English girl! Oh, my dear, I am so content to see you." Sylvia took her in her arms and kissed her. "Oh, Sylvia! You see I remember your name. I can't get away from Jassy. I was being expelled from Moscow, and I had no money to come more than here, and the man I am with here I hate. I want to go to Bucharest, but he isn't wanting to let me go and gives to me only furs, no money." "You're not still with Zozo?" "_Ach_, no! He--how do you say--he shooted me in the leg three years from now and afterward we were no more friends. The man I am with here was of Jassy. I had no money. What else must I do?" Sylvia had not much money, either; but she had just enough to pay Concetta's fare to Bucharest, whither at midnight they set out. "And let no one ever tell me again that presentiments don't exist," murmured Sylvia, falling asleep for the first time in forty-eight hours. CHAPTER IV Concetta's history--or rather Queenie's, for it was by this name that she begged Sylvia to call her now--had been a mixture of splendor, misery, and violence during the six years that, almost to a day, had elapsed since they met for the first time at Granada. She told it in the creeping light of a wet dawn while the train was passing through a flat, colorless country, and while in a corner of the compartment Lottie's snores rose above the noise, told it in the breathless, disjointed style that was so poignantly familiar to the one who listened. There was something ghostly for Sylvia in this experience; it was as if she sat opposite a Galatea of her own creation, a doubleganger from her own brain, a dream prolonged into the cold reality of the morning. All the time that she was listening she had a sensation of being told about events that she ought to know already, as if in a trance she herself had lived this history through before; and so vivid was the sensation that when there were unexplained gaps in Queenie's narrative she found herself puzzling her own brain to fill them in from experience of her own, the recollection of which had been clouded by some accident.