His impression of Miss Gostrey after her introduction to Chad was meanwhile an impression of a person almost unnaturally on her guard. He struck himself as at first unable to extract from her what he wished; though indeed _of_ what he wished at this special juncture he would doubtless have contrived to make but a crude statement. It sifted and settled nothing to put to her, _tout bêtement_, as she often said, “Do you like him, eh?”—thanks to his feeling it actually the least of his needs to heap up the evidence in the young man’s favour. He repeatedly knocked at her door to let her have it afresh that Chad’s case—whatever else of minor interest it might yield—was first and foremost a miracle almost monstrous. It was the alteration of the entire man, and was so signal an instance that nothing else, for the intelligent observer, could—_could_ it?—signify. “It’s a plot,” he declared—“there’s more in it than meets the eye.” He gave the rein to his fancy. “It’s a plant!” His fancy seemed to please her. “Whose then?” “Well, the party responsible is, I suppose, the fate that waits for one, the dark doom that rides. What I mean is that with such elements one can’t count. I’ve but my poor individual, my modest human means. It isn’t playing the game to turn on the uncanny. All one’s energy goes to facing it, to tracking it. One wants, confound it, don’t you see?” he confessed with a queer face—“one wants to enjoy anything so rare. Call it then life”—he puzzled it out—“call it poor dear old life simply that springs the surprise. Nothing alters the fact that the surprise is paralysing, or at any rate engrossing—all, practically, hang it, that one sees, that one _can_ see.” Her silences were never barren, nor even dull. “Is that what you’ve written home?” He tossed it off. “Oh dear, yes!” She had another pause while, across her carpets, he had another walk. “If you don’t look out you’ll have them straight over.” “Oh but I’ve said he’ll go back.” “And _will_ he?” Miss Gostrey asked. The special tone of it made him, pulling up, look at her long. “What’s that but just the question I’ve spent treasures of patience and ingenuity in giving _you_, by the sight of him—after everything had led up—every facility to answer? What is it but just the thing I came here to-day to get out of you? Will he?” “No—he won’t,” she said at last. “He’s not free.” The air of it held him. “Then you’ve all the while known—?” “I’ve known nothing but what I’ve seen; and I wonder,” she declared with some impatience, “that you didn’t see as much. It was enough to be with him there—” “In the box? Yes,” he rather blankly urged. “Well—to feel sure.” “Sure of what?” She got up from her chair, at this, with a nearer approach than she had ever yet shown to dismay at his dimness. She even, fairly pausing for it, spoke with a shade of pity. “Guess!”