And even now it was not knowledge that pierced her, lighting little confusing flashes in her mind and heart. For her heart was still a child’s heart; and her mind, stimulated and rapidly developing under the warm and magic kindness of this man who had become her only friend, had not thought of him in any other way.... Until to-day.
What had happened in her mind, in her heart, she had not analysed—probably was afraid to, there at the piano in the music-room. And later, in her bedroom, when she had summoned up innocent courage sufficient for self-analysis, she didn’t know how to question herself—did not realise exactly what had happened to her, and never even thought of including him in the enchanted 363 cataclysm which had befallen her mind and heart and soul.
Thessalie and Westmore appeared on the lawn by the pool. Behind the woods the sky was tinted with pale orange.
It may have been the psychic quality of the Celt in Dulcie—a pale glimmer of clairvoyance—some momentary and vague premonition wirelessed through the evening stillness which set her sensitive body vibrating; for she turned abruptly and gazed northward across the woods and hills—remained motionless, her grey eyes fixed on the far horizon, all silvery with the hidden glimmer of unlighted stars.
Then she slowly said aloud to herself:
“He will not come. He will never come again—this man who loved my mother.”
Barres approached across the grass, looking for her. She went forward through the arbour to meet him.
“Hasn’t he come?” he asked.
“He is not coming, Garry.”
“Why? Have you heard anything?”