“Speak to him—speak to him!”
I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not.
It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could make use of me to get through to him.
I think I must have guessed even then what it had come for.
I said, “You asked me what I was staring at, and I lied. I was looking at Cicely’s chair.”
I saw him wince at the name.
“Because,” I went on, “I don’t know how you feel, but I always feel as if she were there.”
He said nothing; but he got up, as though to shake off the oppression of the memory I had evoked, and stood leaning on the chimney-piece with his back to me.
The phantasm retreated to its place, where it kept its eyes fixed on him as before.