From the moment he had become aware of her presence in the theatre, Dominic had been sensible that she presented herself under a new aspect. Of the many different Poppys he had seen, this was by far the most powerful and dramatic. She stood out from the rest of the audience as some splendid tropic flower stands out from a thick-set mass of foliage, conspicuous in form and colour and in promise. There were handsome women, smart women, beautifully dressed women in plenty, but Poppy did not shade in with all these, making but part of a general effect. She remained unique, solitary; and this not merely on account of her vivid raiment. The effect of her told upon the mind quite as much as upon the sight. Yet she did not look out of place. She looked, indeed, preeminently at home. Out of doors, in the country sunshine, she had struck Dominic as a slight creature, unreal and fictitious. Here, amid highly artificial and conventional surroundings, she seemed to him the most natural and vital being present, retaining the completeness of her individuality, the energy and mystery of it alike, almost aggressively evident and untouched. Iglesias ceased to consider her in relation to his and her broken friendship, or in relation to that which he so reluctantly divined of her private life. He contemplated her in herself, finding an element of things primitive in her, which commanded his admiration, though it failed, so far, to touch his heart. And if this was the impression he received seeing her at a comparative distance, that impression was greatly intensified seeing her now at close quarters. The contrast between the subtle softness and the flare--as of a conflagration--of her dress, the weariness of her attitude, and the unfathomable melancholy of her eyes, stirred him profoundly. "Yes," she answered quietly, almost coldly, "I know I sent. This was about the last place I should have expected to run across you. I flattered myself I was safe enough here. I didn't wish to meet you one little bit. Still, when I did see you, I wanted you. You're the most plaguey impossible person to rid oneself of somehow"--her voice and manner softened a little--"so I sent for you. I don't know why, because now I've got you I seem to have changed my mind. I have nothing to say." "I can easily go," Iglesias remarked gravely. "No, no, no," she replied, "why should you hurry? I'm sure those two freaks you're herding--the beetle turned hind-side before and the withered leaf--can't be frantically interesting. And I like to look at you. I never saw you before in evening dress, and you're more _grand seigneur_ than ever. But something's happened to you. I can't tell off-hand what it is, whether you've come on or gone back. But you're altered." "I have had an illness," Iglesias said simply; "and I have been very unhappy." "Neither of those are good enough," Poppy answered. "The alteration is right inside you, in your soul. But you're well again now?" she added.