If he could but rig up an hour's colourable pretext of vision, however imperfect, the reality might return in its own good time--if that was the will of Allah--and that time might be soon enough. She might never know the terrible anticipations his underthought had had to fight against. "You look better in the blue Mandarin silk than you would in your tailor's abominations," said Irene, referring to a dressing-gown costume she had insisted on. "Only your hair wants cutting, dear boy! I won't deceive you." "That's serious!" He lets it pass nevertheless. "Look here, 'Rene, I want you to tell me.... Where are you?--oh, here!--all right.... Now tell me--should you say I saw you, by the look of my eyes?" "Indeed I should. Indeed, indeed, _nobody_ could tell. Your eyes look as strong as--as that hooky bird's that sits in the sun at the Zoological and nictitates ... isn't that the word?... Goes twicky-twick with a membrane...." "Fish eagle, I expect." "Shouldn't wonder! Only, look here!... You mustn't claw hold of Gwen like that. How can you tell, without?" "Where they are, do you mean? Oh, I know by the voice. You go somewhere else and speak." Whereupon Irene goes furtively behind him, and says suddenly:--"Now look at me!" It is a success, for the blind man faces round, looking full at her. She claps her hands. "Oh, Adrian!" she cries, "are you sure you don't see--aren't you cheating?" A memory, in this, of old games of blindman's-buff. "You always did cheat, darling, you know, when we played on Christmas Eve. How do I know I can trust you?" She goes close to him again caressing his face. "Oh, _do_ say, dear boy, you can see a little!" But it is no use. He can say nothing. There are a few moments of distressing silence, and then the brother says:--"Never mind, dear! It will be all right. They say so. Take me to the window that I may look out!" They stand together at the open casement, listening to the voices of the birds. The shrewdest observer might fail to detect the flaw in those two full clear eyes that seem to look out at the leagues of park-land, the spotted deer in the distance, the long avenue-road soon indistinguishable in the trees. The sister sees those eyes, no other than she has always known them, but knows that they see nothing. "When I was here first," says the brother, "the thrushes were still singing. They are off duty by now, the very last of them." He stops listening. "That's a yellow-hammer. And that's a linnet. _You_ can't tell one from the other." "I know. I'm shockingly ignorant.... What, dear? What is it you want?" Her brother has been exploring the window-frame with a restless hand, as though in search of some latch or blind-cord. He cannot find what he wants.