"Marion seems to be a warm favorite," Mrs. May smiled. "And yet I rather gather that she does not hold first place in your affections?" "I am engaged to my cousin Vera," Geoffrey explained. "We were boy and girl lovers before Marion came to us. Otherwise--well, we need not go into that. But I never saw any one like Marion till to-night." Mrs. May looked up swiftly. "What do you mean by that?" she asked. "I mean exactly what I say. In certain ways, in certain lights, under certain conditions your face is marvelously like that of Marion." As Geoffrey spoke he saw that the blood had left the cheek of his companion. Her face was deadly pale, so pale that the crimson flower in her breast seemed to grow vivid. There was a motion of the elbow and a wine glass went crashing to the floor. The woman stooped to raise the fragments. "How clumsy of me!" she said. "And why are you regarding me so intently? My heart is a little wrong, the doctors tell me--nothing serious, however. There!" She looked up again. She had recovered and her face was tinged with the red flush of health again. But her hands still shook. But Geoffrey was taking no heed. He had dropped the match he was about to apply to his cigarette and was staring out of the window. The blind had not been drawn; the panes were framed with flowers. And inside that dark circle there came a face, a dark Eastern face, with awful eyes, filled with agony and rage and pain. Across the dusky forehead was a cut from which blood streamed freely. "You are not listening to me," Mrs. May cried. "What is the matter?" "The face, a face at the window," Geoffrey gasped. "A horrible-looking man, not of this country at all; a man with a gash in his forehead. He seemed to be looking for something. When he caught sight of me he disappeared." Mrs. May had risen and crossed to the long French window opening on to the lawn. Her back was towards Geoffrey and she seemed determined, or so he imagined, to keep her face concealed from him. "Strange," she said, carelessly, though she was obviously disturbed. "Surely you were mistaken. Some trick of the brain, a freak of imagination." Geoffrey laughed. Young men at his time of life, men, who follow healthy pursuits, are not given to tricks of the imagination. His pulse was beating steadily; his skin was moist and cool. "I am certain of it," he said. "What is that noise?" Something was calling down the garden. Long before this time the good people of the farm had gone to bed. "Shall I go and see what it is?" Geoffrey asked. "No, no," Mrs. May whispered. "Stay here, I implore you. I would not have had this happen for anything. What am I saying?" She passed her hand cross her face and laughed unsteadily. "There are secrets in everybody's life and there are in mine," she said. "Stay till I return. There will be no danger for me, I assure you."