"But I did! Does that surprise you? I told you I had intuitions, you know. You came to bring my ring, didn’t you?" "Yes, of course. You really have second-sight, then?" He looked at her as one might look at a fairy, in amusement mingled with admiration. "Yes—haven’t _you_?" She put it to him soberly. "Haven’t I already proved it?" His eyes, well-schooled, kept to hers boldly, seeking for the first sign of her incredulity. Into his manner he had tried to infuse a temperamental sympathy, establishing a personal relation. She did not answer for a moment, gazing at him disconcertingly; then her eyes wandered, as she remarked: "You certainly proved something, I don’t quite know what." He laughed it off, saying: "Well, I’ve proved at least that I wanted to see you again, and made the most of this excuse." "Yes, I’m glad I forgot the ring. I’m really very glad to see you, too—I half hoped I might. Won’t you come up to my summer-house? It’s not so windy there, and we can talk better." He accepted, pleased at the invitation and the implied promise it held, and followed her up the path and off toward the line of trees. The place was now visited by belated sunshine which compensated for the sharp afternoon breeze. In the shelter of the cypress hedge the air was warm and fragrant. Here was an arbor built of withe crockery crates overgrown with climbing nasturtiums; it contained a seat looking eastward, towards Telegraph Hill. In front stood a sun-dial mounted on a terra cotta column, beneath a clump of small Lombardy poplars. As she seated herself she pointed to it. "Did you know that this is a sort of cemetery? That sun-dial is really a gravestone. When I was a little girl I buried my doll underneath it. She had broken open, letting the sawdust all out, and I thought she must be dead. It may be there now, for all I know; I never dug her up." He looked over at the shaft, saying, "A very pretty piece of symbolism. I suppose I have buried illusions, myself, somewhere." She thought it over for a moment, and apparently was pleased. "I’d like to dig some of them up," she said at last, turning to him, with the slow movement of her head that was characteristic of her. "Haven’t you enough left?" She started to reply, but evidently decided not to say what she had intended, and let it drop there, her thought passing in a puzzling smile as she looked away again. He had laid his book beside him upon the bench, and, when her eyes came back, she took it up and looked at it. A glance inside showed it to be an old edition of Montaigne. She smiled, her eyes drifted to him with a hint of approval for his taste, then she turned her interest to the binding. As she fingered the leather, touching the tooled surfaces sensitively, her curiosity did not escape his sharp eyes, watching for anything that should be revelatory.