He saw her turn deadly white, reel, and he tried to support her; but she slipped away from him and sat by the wayside. She thought she was going to faint again. “For God’s sake, don’t talk like that. It’s inhuman. It’s unlike you. Even if you were a stranger it would be horrible.” “I’m only apologising for my existence,” he said. “Fate has been against me—but, believe me, I have done my best.” After a while she rose, declaring herself better, and they struck off the road down the twisting lane that led to Pendish. The air was fragrant in the dusk. “Tell me about that accident—how Myra came to know of it. I suppose you sent her word?” “Perhaps when you have talked to Myra, you’ll credit me at least with sincere intentions. If I had informed her, it would have been an indirect appeal to you.” “Perhaps it would have been wiser to appeal to me direct,” said Olivia tonelessly. “I’m not devoid of common humanity.” “I couldn’t have done that,” he said gently. “I lay unconscious for weeks. When I came to my senses I found Myra had come the second morning I was in hospital. I had better begin with my meeting with the Pole, Boronowski—it’s a simple matter.” To him, walking with this lost wife of his dreams, in the lovers’ lane, the hour seemed fantastic. His voice sounded unreal in his ears. His heart lying heavy as lead within him was not the heart that he had thought would beat furiously at the ravishing sight of her. He told his story badly; just the salient facts, uninspired by the dramatic instinct which had made him colour so vividly the narration, a year ago, to Mrs. Pettiland, of his ridiculous adventure. This he barely sketched. For truth’s sake he must tell her of the robbery and account for his penniless condition. It was not himself talking. It was not Olivia to whom he talked. One stranger’s personality was talking through him to another’s. At the end of the tale: “You have changed greatly,” she said. “That’s very possible.” There was a pause. He continued. “And you? Forgive me. I haven’t even asked whether you are well——” “Oh, I’ve been all right. I spent the winter abroad, and now I’m staying with Mrs. Woolcombe at ‘The Towers.’ Major Olifant is away.” They came up suddenly against the wicket-gate of Mrs. Pettiland’s garden. A light shone through the yet undrawn curtains in his old bedroom. He raised an enquiring hand. “Myra?” “Yes. I’m in Mrs. Pettiland’s room in the front. She would give it up to me. I’ve been helping to nurse—as well as I can. I’ve been in all day. That’s why I came out for a walk this evening.” “You must be tired.” “I am.”