“The bed of the Jacobin?” she said in a peculiar tone as if she were humouring a lunatic.

“I think I had better tell you he is a Spaniard—­that he seems to know you from early days. . . .”  I glanced at her face, it was extremely tense, apprehensive.  For myself I had no longer any doubt as to the man and I hoped she would reach the correct conclusion herself.  But I believe she was too distracted and worried to think consecutively.  She only seemed to feel some terror in the air.  In very pity I bent down and whispered carefully near her ear, “His name is Ortega.”

I expected some effect from that name but I never expected what happened.  With the sudden, free, spontaneous agility of a young animal she leaped off the sofa, leaving her slippers behind, and in one bound reached almost the middle of the room.  The vigour, the instinctive precision of that spring, were something amazing.  I just escaped being knocked over.  She landed lightly on her bare feet with a perfect balance, without the slightest suspicion of swaying in her instant immobility.  It lasted less than a second, then she spun round distractedly and darted at the first door she could see.  My own agility was just enough to enable me to grip the back of the fur coat and then catch her round the body before she could wriggle herself out of the sleeves.  She was muttering all the time, “No, no, no.”  She abandoned herself to me just for an instant during which I got her back to the middle of the room.  There she attempted to free herself and I let her go at once.  With her face very close to mine, but apparently not knowing what she was looking at she repeated again twice, “No—­No,” with an intonation which might well have brought dampness to my eyes but which only made me regret that I didn’t kill the honest Ortega at sight.  Suddenly Dona Rita swung round and seizing her loose hair with both hands started twisting it up before one of the sumptuous mirrors.  The wide fur sleeves slipped down her white arms.  In a brusque movement like a downward stab she transfixed the whole mass of tawny glints and sparks with the arrow of gold which she perceived lying there, before her, on the marble console.  Then she sprang away from the glass muttering feverishly, “Out—­out—­out of this house,” and trying with an awful, senseless stare to dodge past me who had put myself in her way with open arms.  At last I managed to seize her by the shoulders and in the extremity of my distress I shook her roughly.  If she hadn’t quieted down then I believe my heart would have broken.  I spluttered right into her face:  “I won’t let you.  Here you stay.”  She seemed to recognize me at last, and suddenly still, perfectly firm on her white feet, she let her arms fall and, from an abyss of desolation, whispered, “O!  George!  No!  No!  Not Ortega.”

There was a passion of mature grief in this tone of appeal.  And yet she remained as touching and helpless as a distressed child.  It had all the simplicity and depth of a child’s emotion.  It tugged at one’s heart-strings in the same direct way.  But what could one do?  How could one soothe her?  It was impossible to pat her on the head, take her on the knee, give her a chocolate or show her a picture-book.  I found myself absolutely without resource.  Completely at a loss.