"I'm afraid we're neither of us real," he said. "Let's try not to scare each other.... They tell me that you're my widow."
She turned her face from him.
"Don't look at me. Oh, don't look at me! Let me go," she repeated wildly.
His fingers closed over hers, still fumbling at the bar.
"I don't think I can do that," he said. "The doctor blames me for frightening you out of your life. He'd hold me responsible if I let you rush out of my house in the middle of the night like this. If you don't mind I'll ask you not to make me out a worse fool than I've been already. And—you aren't going to faint again, are you? Sit down a minute——"
His arm went round her quickly; he had unloosed her hands from the door, and put her into a chair by the fire, before she was sure that she had not fainted. She leant her whirling head against the packed red cushions.
"They gave me something to make me sleep...." she murmured.
He stood a little way off on the hearthrug, watching her. Kit, the terrier, lay down suddenly between them, as if it had him safe.
"How did you know me?" he said abruptly.
"There is a picture of you," she said; "and I—thought of you so often."