nd as she was in travelling dress I fancied
that it was not long since she had landed.

"She probably admired him on the stage when she was here before the war,
and hasn't been in England since till now," I thought, to be interrupted
by Robert himself.

"That armchair's for you, Princess," he said, as I was going to slip
into a smaller one and leave the "throne" for the bride-elect.

For an instant we disputed; then I was about to yield, laughing, when
the little woman in brown jumped up with a gasp.

"Oh, you _can't_ sit in that chair!" she exclaimed. "Don't you
_see_--there's someone there?"

We all three started and stared, thinking, of course, that the creature
was mad. But her face looked sane, and pathetically pleading.

"Do forgive me!" she begged. "I forget that everyone doesn't see what I
see. _They_ are so clear to me always. I'm not insane. But I couldn't
let you sit in that chair. You may have heard of me. I am Priscilla Hay
Reardon, of Boston. I can't at this moment give you the name of the
lovely girl--the lady in the chair--but she would tell me, I think, if I
asked her. I must describe her to you, though, she's so beautiful, and
she so wants you all--no, not _all_; only the gentleman--to recognize
her. She has red-brown hair, in glossy waves, and immense blue eyes,
like violet flame. She has a dainty nose; full, drooping red lips, the
upper one very short and haughty; a cleft in her chin; wonderful
complexion, with rosy cheeks, the colour high under the eyes; a long
throat; a splendid figure, though slim; and she is dressed in gray, with
an ostrich plume trailing over a gray hat that shades her forehead. She
has a string of gray pearls round her neck--_black_ pearls she says they
are; she wears a chiffon scarf held by an emerald brooch, and on her
hand is a ring with a marvellous square emerald."

Robert, Joyce, and I were speechless. The description of June was
exact--June in the gray dress and hat she had worn the day we went to
Robert's rooms, the day they were engaged; the dress he had made her
wear when Sargent painted her portrait.

CHAPTER IV

THE SPIRIT OF JUNE

Before one of us could utter a word, the little woman hurried on.

"Ah, the lovely girl has begun to talk very fast now! I can hardly
understand what she says, because she's half crying. It's to
you she speaks, sir; I don't know your name! But, yes--it's
_Robert_... 'Robert!' the girl is sobbing. 'Have you forgotten m