Helen Bransby’s heart stood still. Something fanned on her face. She stood before Hugh almost transfixed. Slowly, reluctantly even, her eyes left his face, and moved mechanically until they halted and rested on a green-and-pink toy blinking in the sunset. Sunset was fast turning to twilight. The room was flooded and curtained with shadows.
“I always felt,” Hugh continued, “that when I got to this room something would come to me.” Then his manner changed abruptly, the scorn of the modern man mocking and scoffing the embryo seer, and he said bitterly, “I dare say I’ve been a fool—but it all seemed so real—so vivid—so real.” His last words were plaintive with human longing and uncertainty.
“I know,” she smiled a little, but her voice was deeply earnest.
Hugh regarded her in amazement. “You know?” he said breathlessly, catching her hand.
“Yes.” She seemed to find the rest difficult to say. He waited tensely, and with a long intaking of breath she went on, “Hugh, did you ever think where this feeling might come from?”
“Well—no,” he replied lamely, “how could I? It was an impression, I dare say, just because this room was so much in my thoughts.”
“No, it wasn’t that,” Helen said staunchly. “Hugh, I have had this feeling too.”
“You, Helen!”
“Yes. I have it now—strongly. For a long time I’ve felt that there was something that I could do—something I must do—something that would make things right for you.”
“But, my dear”—Hugh was frightened, anxious for her.