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The professor’s sister suffered from some little strain caused by the unstability of her own feelings toward Renouard. She could not tell whether she really did dislike him or not. At times he appeared to her most fascinating; and, though he generally ended by saying something shockingly crude, she could not resist her inclination to talk with him–at least not always. One day when her niece had left them alone on the verandah she leaned forward in her chair–speckless, resplendent, and, in her way, almost as striking a personality as her niece, who did not resemble her in the least. “Dear Felicia has inherited her hair and the greatest part of her appearance from her mother,” the maiden lady used to tell people.

She leaned forward then, confidentially.

“Oh! Mr. Renouard! Haven’t you something comforting to say?”

He looked up, as surprised as if a voice from heaven had spoken with this perfect society intonation, and by the puzzled profundity of his blue eyes fluttered the wax-flower of refined womanhood. She continued. “For–I can speak to you openly on this tiresome subject–only think what a terrible strain this hope deferred must be for Felicia’s heart–for her nerves.”

“Why speak to me about it,” he muttered feeling half choked suddenly.

“Why! As a friend–a well-wisher–the kindest of hosts. I am afraid we are really eating you out of house and home.” She laughed a little. “Ah! When, when will this suspense be relieved! That poor lost Arthur! I confess that I am almost afraid of the great moment. It will be like seeing a ghost.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Renouard, in a dull voice.

She shifted her hands a little. Her pose was perfect in its ease and middle-aged grace.

“Not actually. Only in a photograph. But we have many friends who had the experience of apparitions.”

“Ah! They see ghosts in London,” mumbled Renouard, not looking at her.

“Frequently–in a certain very interesting set. But all sorts of people do. We have a friend, a very famous author–his ghost is a girl. One of my brother’s intimates is a very great man of science. He is friendly with a ghost . . . Of a girl too,” she added in a voice as if struck for the first time by the coincidence. “It is the photograph of that apparition which I have seen. Very sweet. Most interesting. A little cloudy naturally. . . . Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. It’s so consoling to think. . .”

“Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too,” said Renouard grimly.

The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What crudeness! It was always so with this strange young man.

“Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the superstitious fancies of your horrible savages with the manifestations . . . “

Words failed her. She broke off with a very faint primly angry smile. She was perhaps the more offended with him because of that flutter at the beginning of the conversation. And in a moment with perfect tact and dignity she got up from her chair and left him alone.

Renouard didn’t even look up. It was not the displeasure of the lady which deprived him of his sleep that night. He was beginning to forget what simple, honest sleep was like. His hammock from the ship had been hung for him on a side verandah, and he spent his nights in it on his back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sort of half conscious, oppressed stupor. In the morning he watched with unseeing eyes the headland come out a shapeless inkblot against the thin light of the false dawn, pass through all the stages of daybreak to the deep purple of its outlined mass nimbed gloriously with the gold of the rising sun. He listened to the vague sounds of waking within the house: and suddenly he became aware of Luiz standing by the hammock–obviously troubled.