“The strain of having a visitor,” he said soothingly, “has taxed you.  We’re so unused to having people in the house.  He goes to-morrow.”  He warmed her cold hands between his own, stroking them tenderly.  More, for the life of him, he could not say or do.  The joy of a strange, internal excitement made his heart beat faster.  He knew not what it was.  He knew only, perhaps, whence it came.

She peered close into his face through the gloom, and said a curious thing.  “I thought, David, for a moment... you seemed... different.  My nerves are all on edge to-night.”  She made no further reference to her husband’s visitor.

A sound of footsteps from the lawn warned of Sanderson’s return, as he answered quickly in a lowered tone—­“There’s no need to be afraid on my account, dear girl.  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I assure you; I never felt so well and happy in my life.”

Thompson came in with the lamps and brightness, and scarcely had she gone again when Sanderson in turn was seen climbing through the window.

“There’s nothing,” he said lightly, as he closed it behind him.  “Somebody’s been burning leaves, and the smoke is drifting a little through the trees.  The wind,” he added, glancing at his host a moment significantly, but in so discreet a way that Mrs. Bittacy did not observe it, “the wind, too, has begun to roar... in the Forest... further out.”

But Mrs. Bittacy noticed about him two things which increased her uneasiness.  She noticed the shining of his eyes, because a similar light had suddenly come into her husband’s; and she noticed, too, the apparent depth of meaning he put into those simple words that “the wind had begun to roar in the Forest ...further out.”  Her mind retained the disagreeable impression that he meant more than he said.  In his tone lay quite another implication.  It was not actually “wind” he spoke of, and it would not remain “further out"...rather, it was coming in.  Another impression she got too—­still more unwelcome—­was that her husband understood his hidden meaning.

IV

“David, dear,” she observed gently as soon as they were alone upstairs, “I have a horrible uneasy feeling about that man.  I cannot get rid of it.”  The tremor in per voice caught all his tenderness.

He turned to look at her.  “Of what kind, my dear?  You’re so imaginative sometimes, aren’t you?”

“I think,” she hesitated, stammering a little, confused, still frightened, “I mean—­isn’t he a hypnotist, or full of those theosophical ideas, or something of the sort?  You know what I mean—­”

He was too accustomed to her little confused alarms to explain them away seriously as a rule, or to correct her verbal inaccuracies, but to-night he felt she needed careful, tender treatment.  He soothed her as best he could.

“But there’s no harm in that, even if he is,” he answered quietly.  “Those are only new names for very old ideas, you know, dear.”  There was no trace of impatience in his voice.