She could not answer, but it did not matter, he was in another world. She wondered, craving, if he recognized her—if he could recognize her. She sat pale with anguish. But she had to go through it. “I haven’t got any tobacco,” he said thoughtfully. But she paid no heed to his words, only she attended to him. Could he recognize her, or was it all gone? She sat still in a frozen kind of suspense. “I smoke John Cotton,” he said, “and I must economize with it, it is expensive. You know, I’m not very well off while these lawsuits are going on.” “No,” she said, and her heart was cold, her soul kept rigid. He moved, made a loose salute, rose, and went away. She sat motionless. She could see his shape, the shape she had loved, with all her passion: his compact, soldier’s head, his fine figure now slackened. And it was not he. It only filled her with horror too difficult to know. Suddenly he came again, his hand in his jacket pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he said. “Perhaps I shall be able to see things more clearly.” He sat down beside her again, filling a pipe. She watched his hands with the fine strong fingers. They had always inclined to tremble slightly. It had surprised her, long ago, in such a healthy man. Now they moved inaccurately, and the tobacco hung raggedly out of the pipe. “I have legal business to attend to. Legal affairs are always so uncertain. I tell my solicitor exactly, precisely what I want, but I can never get it done.” She sat and heard him talking. But it was not he. Yet those were the hands she had kissed, there were the glistening, strange black eyes that she had loved. Yet it was not he. She sat motionless with horror and silence. He dropped his tobacco pouch, and groped for it on the ground. Yet she must wait if he would recognize her. Why could she not go! In a moment he rose. “I must go at once,” he said. “The owl is coming.” Then he added confidentially: “His name isn’t really the owl, but I call him that. I must go and see if he has come.” She rose too. He stood before her, uncertain. He was a handsome, soldierly fellow, and a lunatic. Her eyes searched him, and searched him, to see if he would recognize her, if she could discover him. “You don’t know me?” she asked, from the terror of her soul, standing alone. He looked back at her quizzically. She had to bear his eyes. They gleamed on her, but with no intelligence. He was drawing nearer to her. “Yes, I do know you,” he said, fixed, intent, but mad, drawing his face nearer hers. Her horror was too great. The powerful lunatic was coming too near to her. A man approached, hastening. “The garden isn’t open this morning,” he said. The deranged man stopped and looked at him. The keeper went to the seat and picked up the tobacco pouch left lying there. “Don’t leave your tobacco, sir,” he said, taking it to the gentleman in the linen coat. “I was just asking this lady to stay to lunch,” the latter said politely. “She is a friend of mine.”