There was a blithe richness of vitality, a sparkle that made him remember the wine at Longstruth’s, the Chinese girls twanging the _vina_ in the bamboo clumps by the river.... Wine and song at Longstruth’s, and a score of other thoughts, light and indistinct as the trailing movements of a vagary—with this concrete enormity in the room. Romney suddenly whipped in closer to reality. His mind had been trying to hold off the truth from itself. Moira Kelvin turned to her mirror. The Hunchback, glancing to see that his face was out of range of the glass, directed one slow terrible look into the eyes of his friend. Romney took it all. For an instant there was an indescribable tightness across his chest and a sense of inadequacy to bear the drama. Nifton Bend had already accepted the death of his beloved. He would spare her from all knowledge of it. There seemed a dull gray shine about his face. The long hands were lifted a little, but steady. The face did not implore; it commanded Romney to be calm, to help in bringing happiness to the departure. Romney was continually swept by surges of incredulity—that this thing was working out under his eyes. In another way it was like the last moment of a tragedy which one knows is coming. He wanted to leave before the end. He felt himself an inadequate third in this great hour.... He heard his own voice, telling of the three sages at the little pool of the lilies in Kuderfoi.... He was describing Rajananda.... She laughed and came close for an instant to listen. She caught the same magic that had been so dear to Anna Erivan.... He remembered a similar look from Moira Kelvin, though more imperious and passionate, when he told her of Nifton Bend and Young China.... He caught a glance of calmness and commendation from the eye of the Hunchback now.... He pictured the tranquil and compassionate Chi Yuan, the firmer and more balanced Tsing Hsia to whom the sureness of the retributive forces of life were as inevitable as gravitation. He spoke again of the little withered master lying between them—so vast, so calm and inclusive.... Always Romney’s own story came in with its wonders and pictures, but he did not let them reach the point of words. His romance was something he might have brought to Moira Kelvin alone, if there had been hours. He longed for her sanction and to show her how wise and deep in life she had been, since all that she had said came true; he wanted her word on the chance of finding Anna Erivan again—to help his faith. There was none to whom the story belonged as to her; but it was not for Nifton Bend in this hour.... He repeated instead what the three sages had said of the dream which was Nifton Bend’s—what they thought of him ... and how the picture of Nifton Bend and herself, together in the lamp-lit room, had stayed with him through the days and nights of the desert riding.