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Early in March I had a telegram from her, in consequence of which I repaired immediately to Chelsea, where the first thing she said to me was: “He has got it, he has got it!”

She was moved, as I could see, to such depths that she must mean the great thing. “Vereker’s idea?”

“His general intention. George has cabled from Bombay.”

She had the missive open there; it was emphatic though concise. “Eureka. Immense.” That was all–he had saved the cost of the signature. I shared her emotion, but I was disappointed. “He doesn’t say what it is.”

“How could he–in a telegram? He’ll write it.”

“But how does he know?”

“Know it’s the real thing? Oh I’m sure that when you see it you do know. Vera incessu patuit dea!”

“It’s you, Miss Erme, who are a ‘dear’ for bringing me such news!”- -I went all lengths in my high spirits. “But fancy finding our goddess in the temple of Vishnu! How strange of George to have been able to go into the thing again in the midst of such different and such powerful solicitations!”

“He hasn’t gone into it, I know; it’s the thing itself, let severely alone for six months, that has simply sprung out at him like a tigress out of the jungle. He didn’t take a book with him– on purpose; indeed he wouldn’t have needed to–he knows every page, as I do, by heart. They all worked in him together, and some day somewhere, when he wasn’t thinking, they fell, in all their superb intricacy, into the one right combination. The figure in the carpet came out. That’s the way he knew it would come and the real reason–you didn’t in the least understand, but I suppose I may tell you now–why he went and why I consented to his going. We knew the change would do it–that the difference of thought, of scene, would give the needed touch, the magic shake. We had perfectly, we had admirably calculated. The elements were all in his mind, and in the secousse of a new and intense experience they just struck light.” She positively struck light herself–she was literally, facially luminous. I stammered something about unconscious cerebration, and she continued: “He’ll come right home–this will bring him.”

“To see Vereker, you mean?”

“To see Vereker–and to see ME. Think what he’ll have to tell me!”

I hesitated. “About India?”

“About fiddlesticks! About Vereker–about the figure in the carpet.”

“But, as you say, we shall surely have that in a letter.”

She thought like one inspired, and I remembered how Corvick had told me long before that her face was interesting. “Perhaps it can’t be got into a letter if it’s ‘immense.'”

“Perhaps not if it’s immense bosh. If he has hold of something that can’t be got into a letter he hasn’t hold of THE thing. Vereker’s own statement to me was exactly that the ‘figure’ WOULD fit into a letter.”

“Well, I cabled to George an hour ago–two words,” said Gwendolen.

“Is it indiscreet of me to ask what they were?”

She hung fire, but at last brought them out. “‘Angel, write.'”

“Good!” I exclaimed. “I’ll make it sure–I’ll send him the same.”

CHAPTER VII.

My words however were not absolutely the same–I put something instead of “angel”; and in the sequel my epithet seemed the more apt, for when eventually we heard from our traveller it was merely, it was thoroughly to be tantalised. He was magnificent in his triumph, he described his discovery as stupendous; but his ecstasy only obscured it–there were to be no particulars till he should have submitted his conception to the supreme authority. He had thrown up his commission, he had thrown up his book, he had thrown up everything but the instant need to hurry to Rapallo, on the Genoese shore, where Vereker was making a stay. I wrote him a letter which was to await him at Aden–I besought him to relieve my suspense. That he had found my letter was indicated by a telegram which, reaching me after weary days and in the absence of any answer to my laconic dispatch to him at Bombay, was evidently intended as a reply to both communications. Those few words were in familiar French, the French of the day, which Covick often made use of to show he wasn’t a prig. It had for some persons the opposite effect, but his message may fairly be paraphrased. “Have patience; I want to see, as it breaks on you, the face you’ll make!” “Tellement envie de voir ta tete!”–that was what I had to sit down with. I can certainly not be said to have sat down, for I seem to remember myself at this time as rattling constantly between the little house in Chelsea and my own. Our impatience, Gwendolen’s and mine, was equal, but I kept hoping her light would be greater. We all spent during this episode, for people of our means, a great deal of money in telegrams and cabs, and I counted on the receipt of news from Rapallo immediately after the junction of the discoverer with the discovered. The interval seemed an age, but late one day I heard a hansom precipitated to my door with the crash engendered by a hint of liberality. I lived with my heart in my mouth and accordingly bounded to the window–a movement which gave me a view of a young lady erect on the footboard of the vehicle and eagerly looking up at my house. At sight of me she flourished a paper with a movement that brought me straight down, the movement with which, in melodramas, handkerchiefs and reprieves are flourished at the foot of the scaffold.