Adrian laughed. "I remember," said he; then quoted: "'The daughters of the dream witch come and go,' don't they? 'The black bat hide the _starren_ of the night.' That's it, isn't it?... No--so far as I know! But they are a queer lot. Nobody ever knows what they'll be at next in the way of jargon. It's some rubbish I wrote when I was a boy. I put it with the others to please 'Re." This was his shortest for Irene. If he would only have toned down his blank ignorance of the beautiful white hand stretched out so appealingly to him--made the least concession! If he had but held in readiness an open-fingered palm, with intent, there would have been hope. But alas!--no such thing. When, instead, he thrust both hands into the pockets of the blue Mandarin-silk dressing-gown, Gwen felt exactly as if a knife had cut her heart. And there were his two beautiful eyes looking--looking--straight at her! Need Fate have worded an inexorable decree so cruelly? Hope caught at a straw, _more suo_. What was more likely than that darkness was intermittent? Many things--most things for that matter! Any improbability to outwit despair. Anything rather than final surrender. Therefore, said Gwen to herself, her hand outstretched should await his, however sick at heart its owner felt, till the last pretext of belief had flagged and died--belief in the impossibility of so terrible a doom, consistently with any decent leniency of the Creator towards His creatures. "Oh--to please Irene, was it?" said Gwen, talking chancewise; not meaning much, but hungering all the while for the slightest aliment for starving Hope. "Who were 'the daughters of the Dream Witch?'" And then she was sorry again. Better that a poem about darkness should have been forgotten! She kept her hand outstretched, mind you!--even though Adrian made matters worse by folding his hands round his arms on a high chair-back, and leaning on it. "I wonder who she is," was the girl's thought, as she looked at a ring. "Let me see!" said he. "How does it go?" Then he quoted, running the lines into one: "'In the night-watches in the garden of Night ever the watchman sorrowing for the light waiteth in silence for the silent Dawn. Dead sleep is on the city far below.' Then the daughters of the Dream Witch came and went as per contract. No--I haven't the slightest idea who they were. They didn't leave their names." "You will never be serious, Mr. Torrens." She felt too heartsick to answer his laugh. She never moved her hand, watching greedily for a sign that never came. There was Irene coming back, having disposed of her ladyship! "I _must_ go," said Gwen, "because of mamma. She's the Dream Witch, I suppose. I _must_ go. Good-bye, Mr. Torrens! But I can leave _my_ name--Gwen or Gwendolen. Choose which you prefer." She had to contrive a laugh, but it caught in her throat.