Mr. Trupp attended his patients once a day for a fortnight. When he paid his last visit, Mrs. Lewknor thanked him and asked him for his account. "I'll see," answered Mr. Trupp. "What are you going to do when you leave here?" "Go back to London and look out for a job, I suppose." Mr. Trupp shook his head. "The Colonel mustn't go back to London," he said. "Why not stay here and find your job here?" He expounded his pet plan, cherished faithfully for years, of an Open-Air Hostel for his tuberculous patients. "There's a site available in Coombe-in-the-Cliff," he said, "just at the back. Build a Home. I'll fill it for you. You'll make a lot of money." Mrs. Lewknor was thrilled at the project. It was at least a great adventure; and, coming of the lion-hearted race that conquered Canaan, she had no fears. The Colonel, it is true, was more tempered in his enthusiasm, but then, as he was fond of saying, "I haven't the courage of a louse. No man has." And he was content to stand aside, as often before, and watch his wife's audacities with admiration not untinged with irony. She took a tiny house in Holywell for herself and her husband, set out to raise money with which to buy the site in Coombe-in-the-Cliff, and sat down in earnest to work out the scheme in co-operation with the inspirer of it. Her visits to Old Town to consult Mr. Trupp were almost daily. In fine weather she would walk across the Golf Links; and when the turf was like a soaped sponge she would go round by the road through Beech-hangar. Here one bitter April afternoon she marked a tall bowed old man walking dreamily under the beech-trees, the light falling through the fine net-work of twigs on his uplifted face. His hands were behind him, and he wore an old-fashioned roomy tail-coat. Mrs. Lewknor's swift feminine eyes took him in at a glance. He was a gentleman; he lived out of the world; and there was somebody at home who cared for him: for it was clear that he was not the kind of man who would care for himself. As she drew near, she glanced away, and yet confirmed her impression with that trick of the well-bred woman who somehow sees without looking. Then, as she passed him, a wave of recognition overwhelmed her, and she stopped suddenly. "Mr. Edward Caspar!" she cried. He, too, had half turned. "I was wondering if you'd remember me," he rumbled, beaming kindly down on the little lady through gold-rimmed spectacles. "You still walk as if you were dancing." "Who am I?" she asked. "I don't know," he answered. "Thirty years ago you were Rachel Solomons." The profound spiritual affinity which had made itself felt in that unforgettable moment under the palms in Grosvenor Square long ago manifested itself instantly. Time was not. Only two spirits were, who recognized the familiar beat of each other's wings in the dark spaces of Eternity. She regarded him affectionately. "How's it gone?" she asked.