“Can I think of anything but you?” I murmured, taking a seat near the foot of the couch. “Or rather it isn’t thinking, it is more like the consciousness of you always being present in me, complete to the last hair, to the faintest shade of expression, and that not only when we are apart but when we are together, alone, as close as this. I see you now lying on this couch but that is only the insensible phantom of the real you that is in me. And it is the easier for me to feel this because that image which others see and call by your name—how am I to know that it is anything else but an enchanting mist? You have always eluded me except in one or two moments which seem still more dream-like than the rest. Since I came into this room you have done nothing to destroy my conviction of your unreality apart from myself. You haven’t offered me your hand to touch. Is it because you suspect that apart from me you are but a mere phantom, and that you fear to put it to the test?” One of her hands was under the fur and the other under her cheek. She made no sound. She didn’t offer to stir. She didn’t move her eyes, not even after I had added after waiting for a while, “Just what I expected. You are a cold illusion.” She smiled mysteriously, right away from me, straight at the fire, and that was all. CHAPTER VI I had a momentary suspicion that I had said something stupid. Her smile amongst many other things seemed to have meant that, too. And I answered it with a certain resignation: “Well, I don’t know that you are so much mist. I remember once hanging on to you like a drowning man . . . But perhaps I had better not speak of this. It wasn’t so very long ago, and you may . . . ” “I don’t mind. Well . . .” “Well, I have kept an impression of great solidity. I’ll admit that. A woman of granite.” “A doctor once told me that I was made to last for ever,” she said. “But essentially it’s the same thing,” I went on. “Granite, too, is insensible.”