"I beg your pardon; we are quite alone."
"No, no! there is a presence here beside our own—a presence so real, so powerful, as to be almost tangible. Oh, I understand that look of quick intelligence in your eyes and that wan smile lurking about your lips. You think me deranged; but I can easily prove to you that I am not."
She had spoken with unexpected fervor, and now paused, pressing her slender hand upon her eyes, as if to compose herself.
"I did not think to encounter one of my so-called crises here," she resumed presently; "but it is just as well, since by this means you can better form some diagnosis of my case. Do—do I afford you any hint? Perhaps, though, I do not interest you?"
His unresponsive silence seemed to dispirit her, for her eager eyes fell dejectedly.
"On the contrary, you interest me very much," he answered gently. "Will you be seated, and give me some information regarding your symptoms?"
She sank into the depths of a reclining-chair that faced the western window, while Morton seated himself directly before her.
The blood-red ribbon below the rainy clouds had faded and shrunk to a filament of pale olive that gave forth a weird, crepuscular glimmer. Objects as white as the pallid face among the cushions seemed to absorb the sensitive light and to grow yet more spectral through its aid.
"First of all," remarked the young doctor, "kindly give me your name and such information as you please concerning your manner of life."
The voice that replied was low to drowsiness.