'I'm glad he is coming,' she cried passionately; 'very glad. He always understands, and he knows.' Yes! he knew and trusted her--he would stand by her even if he knew that one fatal mistake. Whereas Lewis would treat her as a Magdalen; as if she, Gwen Boynton, were a fit subject for a penitentiary! 'Yes,' she repeated slowly, 'I am glad he is coming. You did the right thing there, Lewis, at any rate.' So, with this small consolation, he had to make his way back to give in his report to the girl who had told him that she loved him. Another delicate task, and he felt himself detestably awkward over it, the more so because Rose herself met him as if nothing unusual had occurred. 'Well,' she said eagerly, 'what news?' He told her briefly that there was none. He had had three versions of truth--her own, Chândni's, and Mrs. Boynton's--and there seemed nothing to be done save wait for Dan's arrival. He might be able to throw some light on the subject--he was the last person, at any rate, who was likely to do so. 'You forget the girl--the girl of the portrait, I mean,' suggested Rose quickly. Lewis frowned. 'She disappeared, they say, just before we reached Hodinuggur. I should like, by the way, to see the picture, if you don't mind.' He stood looking at it in silence for some time. 'And that, you say, was the face of your dream?' he asked at last. 'The face, the dress, the pot clasped so to her breast. I seem to grow more sure of it every hour. And I am certain now it was she who said, "I am Azîzan."' 'That sort of certainty grows upon one unconsciously,' he replied, after another pause. 'I confess it is odd; but you can hardly believe it really was the potter's daughter! She has been dead these sixteen years. You think it was her ghost, perhaps; but did George paint the ghost?' Rose stood silent, her hands clasped tightly. 'Who knows?' she said slowly. 'One knows so little. When I think of it all--of that strange old man with his refrain, "We come and go--we come and go," I seem to feel that odd, uncanny sense of helplessness which one has during a storm at sea, when you realise that the waves are not moving on at all, but rise and fall, rise and fall for ever in the same place. It is the ship which drifts within their power, giving them their wrecker's chance once more. And now--you will say that I am superstitious; but I almost regret that you should bring Mr. Fitzgerald into this business at all. You remember the potter's measure? Think of it, and how poor George himself----' She paused, her eyes full of tears.