“Your master!”
But there was something in the stateliness of her attitude and the dignity of her bearing that checked this bold utterance on his lips, and he replied:
“Your slave!—if so you will it!”
A smile of vague surprise crossed her features.
“Remind me how I came here,” she said. “There is something I cannot recall. I have been so much in the light and this place is very dark. You are a friend, I suppose—are you not?”
A chilly touch of dread overcame him. His experiment had failed, if despite its perfection of physical result, the brain organisation was injured or destroyed. She talked at random, and with a lost air, as if she had no recollection of any previous happenings.
“Surely I am your friend!” he said, rising from his knees and approaching her more nearly. “You remember me?—Féodor Dimitrius?”
She passed one hand across her brow.
“Dimitrius?—Féodor Dimitrius?” she repeated,—then suddenly she laughed,—a clear bright laugh like that of a happy child—“Of course! I know you now—and I know my self. I am Diana May,—Diana May who was the poor unloved old spinster with wrinkles round her eyes and ‘feelings’ in her stupidly warm heart!—but she is dead! I live!”
She lifted her arms, the silver sheen of her mysterious gleaming garment falling back like unfurled wings.