Shortly after this Yva came to sit with me. She studied me for a while and I studied her. I had reason to do so, for I observed that of late her dress had become much more modern, and on the present occasion this struck me forcibly. I do not know exactly in what the change, or changes, consisted, because I am not skilled in such matters and can only judge of a woman’s garments by their general effect. At any rate, the gorgeous sweeping robes were gone, and though her attire still looked foreign and somewhat oriental, with a touch of barbaric splendour about it—it was simpler than it had been and showed more of her figure, which was delicate, yet gracious. “You have changed your robes, Lady,” I said. “Yes, Humphrey. Bastin gave me pictures of those your women wear.” (On further investigation I found that this referred to an old copy of the _Queen_ newspaper, which, somehow or other, had been brought with the books from the ship.) “I have tried to copy them a little,” she added doubtfully. “How do you do it? Where do you get the material?” I asked. “Oh!” she answered with an airy wave of her hand, “I make it—it is there.” “I don’t understand,” I said, but she only smiled radiantly, offering no further explanation. Then, before I could pursue the subject, she asked me suddenly: “What has Bickley been saying to you about me?” I fenced, answering: “I don’t know. Bastin and Bickley talk of little else. You seem to have been a great deal with them while I was ill.” “Yes, a great deal. They are the nearest to you who were so sick. Is it not so?” “I don’t know,” I answered again. “In my illness it seemed to me that _you_ were the nearest.” “About Bastin’s words I can guess,” she went on. “But I ask again—what has Bickley been saying to you about me? Of the first part, let it be; tell me the rest.” I intended to evade her question, but she fixed those violet, compelling eyes upon me and I was obliged to answer. “I believe you know as well as I do,” I said; “but if you will have it, it was that you are not as other human women are, and that he who would treat you as such, must suffer; that was the gist of it.” “Some might be content to suffer for such as I,” she answered with quiet sweetness. “Even Bastin and Bickley may be content to suffer in their own little ways.” “You know that is not what I meant,” I interrupted angrily, for I felt that she was throwing reflections on me. “No; you meant that you agreed with Bickley that I am not quite a woman, as you know women.” I was silent, for her words were true. Then she blazed out into one of her flashes of splendour, like something that takes fire on an instant; like the faint and distant star which flames into sudden glory before the watcher’s telescope.