An almost frightened look came into her eyes. It was as though he could see, for she was wearing a dark-red dress—“wine-coloured,” her father called it, “maroon,” Madame Bulteel called it. Could he then see, after all?
“How did you know it was dark-red?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Guessed it! Guessed it!” he answered almost gleefully. “Was I right? Is it dark-red?”
“Yes, dark-red,” she answered. “Was it really a guess?”
“Ah, but the guessiest kind of a guess,” he replied. “But who can tell? I couldn’t see it, but is there any reason why the mind shouldn’t see when the eyes are no longer working? Come now,” he added, “I’ve a feeling that I can tell things with my mind just as if I saw them. I do see. I’ll guess the time now—with my mind’s eye.”
Concentration came into his face. “It’s three minutes to twelve o’clock,” he said decisively.
She took up the watch which lay on the table beside the bed.
“Yes, it’s just three minutes to twelve,” she declared in an awe-struck voice. “That’s marvellous—how wonderful you are!”
“That’s what I said of you a minute ago,” he returned. Then, with a swift change of voice and manner, he added, “How long is it?”
“You mean, since you came here?” she asked, divining what was in his mind.