It was almost on his lips to ask her if she could marry Grainger and still go on happily, like this, with him, Gavan. That it should have seemed possible to ask it showed how far into fairy-land they had wandered; but it was one of the turnings that one didn’t choose to take; one was warned in one’s sleep of lurking dangers on that road. It might lead one straight out of fairy-land, straight into uncomfortable waking. “How happily we do go on, Eppie,” was what he did choose to say. “More happily than ever before. What a contrast this--to East London.” She glanced at him. “And to Surrey.” “And to Surrey,” he accepted. “Surrey was worse than East London,” she said. “I didn’t know how much of a strain it had been until I got away from it.” “One saw it all in your face.” “‘One’ meaning a clever Eppie, I suppose. But, yes, I had a bad moment there.” The memory of that heave of sod had no place in fairy-land, even less place than the forecast of an Eppie married to Jim Grainger, and he didn’t let his thought dwell on it even when he owned to the bad moment, and he was thinking, really with amusement over her unconsciousness, of the two means of escape from it that he had found to his hand,--the pistol and her letter,--when she took up his words with a quiet, “Yes, I knew you had.” “Knew that I had had a strain, you mean?” “No, had a bad moment,” she answered. “You saw it in my face?” “No. I knew. Before I saw you.” He smiled at her. “You have a clairvoyant streak in your Scotch blood?” She smiled back. “Probably. I knew, you see.” Her assurance, with its calm over what it knew, really puzzled him. “Well, what did you know?” She had kept on quietly smiling while she looked at him, and, though she now became grave, it was not as if for pain but for thankfulness. “It was in the evening, the day after I wrote to you, the day your father was buried. I went to my room to dress for dinner, my room next yours, you know. And I was looking out,--at the pine-tree, the summer-house where we played, and, in especial, I remember, at the white roses that I could smell in the evening so distinctly,--when I knew, or saw, I don’t know which, that you were in great suffering. It was most of all as if I were in you, feeling it myself, rather than seeing or knowing. Then,” her voice went on in its unshaken quiet, “I did seem to see--a grave; not your father’s grave. You were seeing it, too,--a green grave. And then I came back into myself and knew. You were in some way,--going. I stood there and looked at the roses and seemed only to wait intensely, to watch intensely. And after that came a great calm, and I knew that you were not going.” She quietly looked at him again,--her eyes had not been on him while she spoke,--and, though he had paled a little, he looked as quietly back. He found himself accepting, almost as a matter of course, this deep, subconscious bond between them.