at, come what might, she should not come
to him in his darkness, in the hope that this darkness might pass away
and leave her image open to him as before. For this hope had mixed
itself with that strong desire of his heart that his own disaster should
weigh upon her as little as possible. He had kept this meeting back
almost till the eleventh hour, hoping against hope that light would
break; longing each day for a gleam of the dawn that was to give him his
life once more, and make the whole sad story a matter of the past. And
now the time had come; and here he stood awaiting the ordeal he had to
pass successfully, or face his failure as he might.

If he could but rig up an hour's colourable pretext of vision, however
imperfect, the reality might return in its own good time--if that was
the will of Allah--and that time might be soon enough. She might never
know the terrible anticipations his underthought had had to fight
against.

"You look better in the blue Mandarin silk than you would in your
tailor's abominations," said Irene, referring to a dressing-gown costume
she had insisted on. "Only your hair wants cutting, dear boy! I won't
deceive you."

"That's serious!" He lets it pass nevertheless. "Look here, 'Rene, I
want you to tell me.... Where are you?--oh, here!--all right.... Now
tell me--should you say I saw you, by the look of my eyes?"

"Indeed I should. Indeed, indeed, _nobody_ could tell. Your eyes look as
strong as--as that hooky bird's that sits in the sun at the Zoological
and nictitates ... isn't that the word?... Goes twicky-twick with a
membrane...."

"Fish eagle, I expect."

"Shouldn't wonder! Only, look here!... You mustn't claw hold of Gwen
like that. How can you tell, without?"

"Where they are, do you mean? Oh, I know by the voice. You go somewhere
else and speak." Whereupon Irene goes furtively behind him, and says
suddenly:--"Now look at me!" It is a success, for the blind man faces
round, looking full at her.

She claps her hands. "Oh, Adrian!" she cries, "are you sure you don't
see--aren't you cheating?" A memory, in this, of old games of
blindman's-buff. "You always did cheat, darling, you know, when we
played on Christmas Eve. How do I know I can trust you?" She goes close
to him again caressing his face. "Oh, _do_ say, dear boy, you can see a
little!" But it is no use. He can say nothing.

There are a few moments of distressing silence, and then the brother
says:--"Never mind, dea