He shook his head. "Six years ago I was studying in Bonn. The term was over, it is true, but I went for my vacation to my uncle's. He had just had his place restored."
"Where is it?"
"Near Coblentz."
"Then it couldn't have been. It's strange that we should both feel as if ..." she said.
"There are certain pictures belonging to our psychic existence," he replied, "which seem like memories, and are in reality presentiments."
"I wonder what you mean?"
"I mean that one walks between past and coming experiences as on a tight-rope; that one reels and falls into space so soon as----"
"What?"
"So soon as one----" he broke off abruptly. "Pardon my asking, but are you an artist?"
"Why?" she asked nervously. She felt repelled. Was he making a fool of her?