"Whom?"
"Him—Marr! He's not dead; he's here; he's here, I tell you. I see him in the glass!"
She shivered. The room seemed spinning round with her, and the two faces danced and sprang in the mirror, as if a hand shook it up and down, from side to side.
"If he is here," Valentine said, "it is not in the way you fancy. Your imagination has played you a trick."
"Didn't you—didn't you see him? Don't you see him now?"
"I see only you and myself."
As if for a joke he bent his head and peered closely at the mirror, like a man endeavouring to discern some very pale and dim reflection there.
"No, he's—he's not there!" he murmured, "but—"
With a harsh exclamation he dashed his fist against the mirrored face of the lady of the feathers. The glass cracked and broke from top to bottom. Cuckoo cried out. Valentine's hand had blood upon it. He did not seem to know this, and swung round upon her with an almost savage fury.
"Don't—don't, for God's sake," she cried, fearing an attack.