It turned to me then—and this was the first time it had given any sign that it was conscious of my presence—it turned on me a look of supplication, such supplication as I had seen on my sister’s face in her lifetime, when she could do nothing with him and implored me to intercede. At the same time three words formed themselves in my brain with a sudden, quick impulsion, as if I had heard them cried. “Speak to him—speak to him!” [Illustration] I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not. It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could make use of me to get through to him. I think I must have guessed even then what it had come for. I said, “You asked me what I was staring at, and I lied. I was looking at Cicely’s chair.” I saw him wince at the name. “Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how _you_ feel, but _I_ always feel as if she were there.” He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his back to me. The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him as before. I was determined to break down his defences, to make him say something it might hear, give some sign that it would understand. “Donald, do you think it’s a good thing, a _kind_ thing, never to talk about her?” “Kind? Kind to whom?” “To yourself, first of all.” “You can leave me out of it.” “To me, then.” “What’s it got to do with you?” His voice was as hard and cutting as he could make it. “Everything,” I said. “You forget, I loved her.” He was silent. He did at least respect my love for her. “But that wasn’t what she wanted.” That hurt him. I could feel him stiffen under it. “You see, Donald,” I persisted, “_I_ like thinking about her.” It was cruel of me; but I _had_ to break him. “You can think as much as you like,” he said, “provided you stop talking.” “All the same, it’s as bad for you,” I said, “as it is for me, not talking.” “I don’t care if it is bad for me. I _can’t_ talk about her, Helen. I don’t want to.” “How do you know,” I said, “it isn’t bad for _her_?” “For _her_?” I could see I had roused him. “Yes. If she really is there, all the time.” “How d’you mean, _there?_” “Here—in this room. I tell you I can’t get over that feeling that she’s here.” “Oh, feel, feel,” he said; “but don’t talk to me about it!” And he left the room, flinging himself out in anger. And instantly her flame went out.