proud look of superiority directed straight at me.

I was at a loss, seriously at a loss, what to do.

The outbreak which I had provoked in leading him to speak of the late
Mrs. Eustace warned me to be careful, and to wait for my opportunity
before I reverted to _that_ subject. How else could I turn the
conversation so as to lead him, little by little, toward the betrayal of
the secrets which he was keeping from me? In this uncertainty, one thing
only seemed to be plain. To let him tell his story would be simply to
let him waste the precious minutes. With a vivid remembrance of Ariel's
"ten claws," I decided, nevertheless on discouraging Dexter's new whim
at every possible opportunity and by every means in my power.

"Now, Mrs. Valeria," he began, loudly and loftily, "listen. Now, Ariel,
bring your brains to a focus. I improvise poetry; I improvise fiction.
We will begin with the good old formula of the fairy stories. Once upon
a time--"

I was waiting for my opportunity to interrupt him when he interrupted
himself. He stopped, with a bewildered look. He put his hand to his
head, and passed it backward and forward over his forehead. He laughed
feebly.

"I seem to want rousing," he said

Was his mind gone? There had been no signs of it until I had unhappily
stirred his memory of the dead mistress of Gleninch. Was the weakness
which I had already noticed, was the bewilderment which I now saw,
attributable to the influence of a passing disturbance only? In other
words, had I witnessed nothing more serious than a first warning to him
and to us? Would he soon recover himself, if we were patient, and gave
him time? Even Benjamin was interested at last; I saw him trying to look
at Dexter around the corner of the chair. Even Ariel was surprised and
uneasy. She had no dark glances to cast at me now.

We all waited to see what he would do, to hear what he would say, next.

"My harp!" he cried. "Music will rouse me."

Ariel brought him his harp.

"Master," she said, wonderingly, "what's come to you?"

He waved his hand, commanding her to be silent.

"Ode to Invention," he announced, loftily, addressing himself to me.
"Poetry and music improvised by Dexter. Silence! Attention!"

His fingers wandered feebly over the harpstrings, awakening no melody,
suggesting no words. In a little while his hand dropped; his head sank
forward gently, and rested on the frame of the harp. I started to my
feet, and approached him. Was i