t image. He sat still a long time, to all appearance watching
the little blue butterflies playing round the red and tawny roses. Then
his fingers began to work, feverishly shaping a head; not of a man, not
of a beast, but a sort of horned, heavy mingling of the two. There was
something frenetic in the movement of those rather short, blunt-ended
fingers, as though they were strangling the thing they were creating.

VIII

In those days, such as had served their country travelled, as befitted
Spartans, in ordinary first-class carriages, and woke in the morning at
La Roche or some strange-sounding place, for paler coffee and the
pale brioche. So it was with Colonel and Mrs. Ercott and their niece,
accompanied by books they did not read, viands they did not eat, and one
somnolent Irishman returning from the East. In the disposition of legs
there was the usual difficulty, no one quite liking to put them up, and
all ultimately doing so, save Olive. More than once during that night
the Colonel, lying on the seat opposite, awoke and saw her sitting,
withdrawn into her corner, with eyes still open. Staring at that little
head which he admired so much, upright and unmoving, in its dark straw
toque against the cushion, he would become suddenly alert. Kicking
the Irishman slightly in the effort, he would slip his legs down, bend
across to her in the darkness, and, conscious of a faint fragrance as of
violets, whisper huskily: "Anything I can do for you, my dear?" When she
had smiled and shaken her head, he would retreat, and after holding his
breath to see if Dolly were asleep, would restore his feet, slightly
kicking the Irishman. After one such expedition, for full ten minutes he
remained awake, wondering at her tireless immobility. For indeed she was
spending this night entranced, with the feeling that Lennan was beside
her, holding her hand in his. She seemed actually to feel the touch
of his finger against the tiny patch of her bare palm where the glove
opened. It was wonderful, this uncanny communion in the dark rushing
night--she would not have slept for worlds! Never before had she felt
so close to him, not even when he had kissed her that once under the
olives; nor even when at the concert yesterday his arm pressed hers;
and his voice whispered words she heard so thirstily. And that
golden fortnight passed and passed through her on an endless band of
reminiscence. Its memories were like flowers, such scent and warmth an