"Portia come back to life and judgment—I believe you're right!" he cried. "Take me to town with you. Take me to Joyce!"
As we stood, thrilled, hand in hand, the door opened. The same servant who had let me in announced acidly: "Another lady to see you, sir."
The lady in question had come so near the door that she must have seen us before we could start apart.
I knew her at first glance: Opal Fawcett.
CHAPTER III
THE CHAIR AT THE SAVOY
It was five years since I'd seen Opal Fawcett—for the first and last time, that day I went to her house with June.
Then she had gleamed wraithlike in the purple dusk of her purple room, with its purple-shaded lamps. Now she stood in full daylight, against the frank background of a country cottage wall. Yet she was still a mere film of a woman. She seemed to carry her own eerie effect with her wherever she went, as the heroines of operas are accompanied by their special spot-light and leitmotif.
Whether the servant was untrained, or spiteful because a long-standing rule had been broken in my favour, I can't tell. But I'm sure that, if he'd been given half a chance, Robert would have made some excuse not to see Opal. There she was, however, on the threshold, and looking like one of those "Dwellers on the Threshold" you read of in psychic books.