It was evening of the same day. Sara sat down in the quaint old salon, in the flickering firelight. There was an open English grate in which pine-logs were burnt, for the appearance of comfort; and there was likewise a porcelain stove to produce the reality of it. She had sent away the servant who came with lights, saying she would ring when she wanted them; and now, with her cheek propped on her hand, she sat and gazed into the fire–into the red map of the land of dreams. It was indeed a vague, aimless dream in which she was lost; and yet there was an undercurrent of passion about it, a solid basis to the vision. That letter from Rio, which she had had that morning, which lay open in her hands now, which she had just been reading, and which had wafted her on its thin pages away from this place altogether. She pictured to herself tropical climes and South American forests. Could he be perhaps wandering with his friend in the solemn, desolate splendour and luxuriance of such a forest, even now? At least, wherever he was, he was hundreds of leagues away from her. She had visions of stately vessels borne onwards by soft south-western gales–gentle gales. So, equally, she could see, in the map that was constantly changing its boundaries by a process of crumbling, visions of fair and busy cities–foreign cities, full of pleasure and gaiety, most beautiful to behold, but all a very long way off–hundreds, yea, thousands of miles away. The great distance, the feeling that if anyone asked her, ‘Where is he now?’ she could only answer, ‘I know not!’ weighed her down with an unspeakable despondency. Then, like a flash of fire across this chill mood of resignation, darted a longing, intense and uncontrollable, to have him there, at that very moment. Oh, if he would but come! If he would but come! Could he not understand the meaning her last letters had tried to convey? Could he not read, ‘I love you,’ between the lines? This intense, concentrated longing for the bodily presence of some deeply-loved personality is a painful thing when one longs and goes on longing in spite of the secure knowledge that no amount of longing will bring that person to one. Thus it was with her. She covered her face with her hands presently, and her heart throbbed. Did he in this moment experience half of the same feeling? If she could have thought it, she would have felt almost satisfied. But how could he? She raised her head, and looked round the room–her favourite, because it was into it that he had led her and Countess Carla, on that far back, happy red-letter day whose full worth and meaning she had only within the last weeks began really to realise. ‘Could not a miracle happen?’ she thought; ‘could not he have followed quickly on the footsteps of his letter, and–but heaven forgive my presumption! Why should such notice be taken of _me_?’