No, she thought she would like to see him again before saying anything about it. He was a serious man. She had met him at a musical German lunch, where she had not expected to be amused. He looked as if he had suffered—or, perhaps, sat up too late.... He had dark blue eyes, which she chose to call violet. He talked, beautifully about philosophy. He made her feel she had a Soul—which was just the sort of thing she needed; and though he was at a musical German lunch, he was neither musical nor German, and his satisfaction in sitting next to her instead of next a celebrated German singer who was present was both obvious and complimentary. Yet what had he really said?
He had said, "My dear Mrs. Ogilvie, human nature is human nature all the world over, and there's no getting away from it, try how you will. Oh! don't get me on my hobby, because I'm afraid I shall bore you, but I'm a bit of a philosopher in my way."
How clever! But what did he mean? He told her to read philosophy. He said she had the eyes of a mystic. She had spent several minutes looking in the mirror trying to see the strange mysticism he saw in her eyes, and remembering the prophesies of Zero.
They talked a long time after lunch in the deep window seat, where the music was audible but not disturbing, and she had not asked him to call. She was always asking people to call, and they always called, and it was always the same, nothing ever came of it. Probably some instinct told her she would see him again, or she could not have resisted. Finally he said, "We have known each other in a previous existence. This is an old friendship. I shall come and see you to-morrow."
"Not to-morrow—Thursday," said Vera, thinking she would not have time to get a new dress. So he was coming to-morrow. Perhaps he would give her some new philosophy of life. He would make the riddle of existence clear. He had bright and beautiful eyes, but—and here came in Vera's weakness—she could not make up her mind even to fall in love without some comment of Felicity's.
Supposing Felicity said it was charming and just the right thing for her, how delightful that would be! On the other hand, she might make one of those terrible enlightening little remarks that smashed up all illusions and practically spoilt the fun. How right she had been about Bobby! "Not worth worrying about." How right about many other people! Then Felicity now settled nothing (with regard to people) without consulting Bertie. Instead of taking a person just as he appeared as Vera did, "Charming man, most cultured—I'm sure you'll like him," as the hostess, Mrs. Dorfenstein, had said, Bertie would know everything about him—who his father and mother were, why he happened to be at the German lunch, his profession, his favourite hobbies, what was his usual method, and a hundred other things likely to prevent any sort of surprises. Really, Felicity and Bertie together were a rather formidable couple of psychologists. Felicity often amused herself by experimenting on the people that Bertie had discovered. What Vera feared more than anything else was that Mr. Newman Ferguson would be pronounced a very simple case. When she came home from her drive she saw a letter—a new handwriting, which she instinctively felt certain was from Mr. Ferguson. Therefore, although she was alone, she put it in her muff, went and locked herself into her room, and began to read it.
The first thing that struck her was the remarkably beautiful, carefully formed handwriting, and the immense length of the letter.
Pink with joy and excitement, her hat and furs still on, she read—
"My dear Mrs. Ogilvie, ... Ships that pass in the night.... Friends signalling.... Elective affinities." ... "Oh, good gracious!" She glanced hastily at the signature. "Strange as it may seem, I am now and for all time your devoted slave, Newman Ferguson."