But something must happen to make the night memorable. No hope of anything fortuitous. Impossible to turn over, and be rescued, in these narrow channels. Not a soul on the meadows but themselves. . . . She wasn’t cold, after all—rarely was, for that matter. That fur coat was a wedding-present from Mrs. Pleyden . . . well, let her thoughts scatter. Their eyes met with that quick spontaneous smile of youth to youth, which may mean all or nothing. If Geoffrey were experiencing the pangs of unsatisfied love it was evident he had no intention of betraying himself. He was a young man indulging in a picturesque hour with a beautiful girl and it was a part of his part to be duly appreciative. But with that quick involuntary response, that smiling subtly intimate exchange, she felt a curious stir in her body. An invisible cloak seemed to envelop her under that dark ugly cape and turn mere warmth into a glow. A curious sense of unreality. . . . Reality? “Have we been here before?” she asked abruptly. “What I felt once or twice when we were in fancy dress? Unfortunately that sort of thing has been scientifically explained. It means nothing I’m afraid.” “I rather like the idea of reincarnation.” Quite forgetting she had rejected it with scorn. “So do I—as a man. But science is uncompromising.” “Science is always finding out its mistakes. Look at anthropology. I read a lot of that last year.” She shied away from any mention of Eustace, even as tutor. “True. Well, of course, anything is possible. We know very little after all. Certainly nothing of the Beyond.” “I choose to believe,” said Gita clearly and looking straight at him, “that two hundred years ago I was living at that manor and you came here from Boston on a visit—political, probably—and brought letters to us. You would, of course . . . I think I knew it that night.” “A very pretty game, if you want to play it.” She saw his eyes flash and his mouth set, simultaneously. “But this is not a romantic age, you know. Particularly since the war. I’m told that no old cliché is so heartily despised—that’s saying a good deal, isn’t it? Clichés being anathema in your set, I’m told.” “That crowd is the merest ripple on the surface. Not hit in the solar plexus by the war like the young English writers, but taking their cue, although they’d hate to admit it. We’re all exactly the same as we always have been.” “Fundamentally—I suppose we are. But luckily most of us are forced to live on the surface of our minds, at high pressure, and seldom have time to take a plunge.” “Seldom, yes. But occasionally?”