“Dark!” she said.     

       “Yes, until I lit the candle. And you cried out when I was only in the doorway. You could not see me there.”      

       “Why not? What has that got to do with it?” she murmured, still trembling violently.     

       “You can see me in the dark?”      

       “Of course,” she said. “I don’t understand what you mean. Of course I can see you when you are there before my eyes.”      

       “But——” I began; and then her obvious and complete surprise at my questions stopped them. I still held her hands in mine, and their extreme coldness roused me to the remembrance that she was unclothed.     

       “You will be ill if you stay here,” I said. “Come back to your room.”      

       She said nothing, and I led her back, waited while she got into bed, and then, placing the candle on the dressing-table, sat down in a chair by her side.     

       The strong determination to take prompt action, to come to an explanation, to end these dreary mysteries of mind and conduct, was still upon me.     

       I did not think of the strange hour; I did not care that the night was gliding on towards dawn. I was self-absorbed. I was beyond ordinary considerations.     

       Yet I did not speak immediately. I was trying to be quite calm, trying to think of the best line for me to take. So much might depend upon our mere words now. At length I said, laying my hand upon hers, which was outside the coverlet:     

       “Margot, what were you doing in that room at such a strange hour? Why were you there?”      

       She hesitated obviously. Then she answered, not looking at me:     

       “I missed you. I thought you might be there—writing.”      

       “But you were in the dark.”      

       “I thought you would have a light.”      

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