"Surely instinct is always true?" said I—"I'd thank you for another cup of tea—yet, strangely enough, dogs generally make friends with me very readily, and the few children to whom I've spoken have neither screamed nor run away from me. Still, as I said before, I am aware that my looks are scarcely calculated to gain the love of man, woman, or child; not that it matters greatly, seeing that I am likely to hold very little converse with either." "There is one woman, Peter, to whom you have talked by the hour together—" "And who is doubtless weary enough of it all—more especially of Epictetus and Trojan Helen." "Two lumps of sugar, Peter?" "Thank you! Women are very like flowers—" I began. "That is a very profound remark, sir!—more especially coming from one who has studied and knows womankind so deeply." "—and it is a pity that they should be allowed to 'waste their sweetness on the desert air.'" "And philosophical blacksmiths, Peter?" "More so if they be poor blacksmiths." "I said 'philosophical,' Peter." "You probably find your situation horribly lonely here?" I went on after a pause. "Yes; it's nice and lonely, Peter." "And, undoubtedly, this cottage is very poor and mean, and—er—humble?" Charmian smiled and shook her head. "But then, Charmian Brown is a very humble person, sir." "And you haven't even the luxury of a mirror to dress your hair by!" "Is it so very clumsily dressed, sir?" "No, no," said I hastily, "indeed I was thinking—" "Well, Peter?" "That it was very—beautiful!" "Why, you told me that last night—come, what do you think of it this morning?" "With those leaves in it—it is—even more so!" Charmian laughed, and, rising, swept me a stately curtesy. "After all, sir, we find there be exceptions to every rule!" "You mean?" "Even blacksmiths!" And in a while, having finished my breakfast, I rose, and, taking my hat, bade Charmian "Good morning," and so came to the door. But on the threshold I turned and looked back at her. She had risen, and stood leaning with one hand on the table; now in the other she held the breadknife, and her eyes were upon mine. And lo! wonder of wonders! once again, but this time sudden and swift—up from the round, full column of her throat, up over cheek and brow there rushed that vivid tide of color; her eyes grew suddenly deep and soft, and then were hidden 'neath her lashes—and, in that same moment, the knife slipped from her grasp, and falling, point downwards, stood quivering in the floor between us—an ugly thing that gleamed evilly. Was this an omen—a sign vouchsafed of that which, dark and terrible, was, even then, marching to meet us upon this Broad Highway? O Blind, and more than blind!