“I know,” she said, “I know why you said it. Because it was Ranjab.” She shivered slightly. “I am afraid of that man, Lydia. He seems to be watching me all the time. Day and night his eyes seem to be upon me.”
“Why, should he be watching you?” asked Lydia bluntly.
Yvonne did not notice the question.
“Even when I am asleep in my bed, in the dead hour of night, he is looking at me. I can feel it. Oh, it is not a dream, for my dreams are of something or someone else—never of him. And yet he is there, looking at me. It—it is uncanny.”
“Imagination,” remarked Lydia quietly. “He never struck me as especially omnipresent.”
“Didn't you feel him a moment ago?” demanded Yvonne irritably.
The other hesitated, reflecting.
“I suppose it must have been something like that.” They were still facing the door, standing close together. “Why do you feel that he is watching you?”
“I don't know. I just feel it, that's all. Day and night. He can read my thoughts, Lydia, as he would read a book. Isn't—isn't it disgusting?” Her laugh was spiritless, obviously artificial.
“I shouldn't object to his reading my thoughts,” said Lydia.