Even after dinner they smoked their cigars upon the low branches that swept down and touched the lawn, until at length she insisted on their coming in.  Cedars, she had somewhere heard, were not safe after sundown; it was not wholesome to be too near them; to sleep beneath them was even dangerous, though what the precise danger was she had forgotten.  The upas was the tree she really meant.

At any rate she summoned David in, and Sanderson came presently after him.

For a long time, before deciding on this peremptory step, she had watched them surreptitiously from the drawing-room window—­her husband and her guest.  The dusk enveloped them with its damp veil of gauze.  She saw the glowing tips of their cigars, and heard the drone of voices.  Bats flitted overhead, and big, silent moths whirred softly over the rhododendron blossoms.  And it came suddenly to her, while she watched, that her husband had somehow altered these last few days—­since Mr. Sanderson’s arrival in fact.  A change had come over him, though what it was she could not say.  She hesitated, indeed, to search.  That was the instinctive dread operating in her.  Provided it passed she would rather not know.  Small things, of course, she noticed; small outward signs.  He had neglected The Times for one thing, left off his speckled waistcoats for another.  He was absent-minded sometimes; showed vagueness in practical details where hitherto he showed decision.  And—­he had begun to talk in his sleep again.

These and a dozen other small peculiarities came suddenly upon her with the rush of a combined attack.  They brought with them a faint distress that made her shiver.  Momentarily her mind was startled, then confused, as her eyes picked out the shadowy figures in the dusk, the cedar covering them, the Forest close at their backs.  And then, before she could think, or seek internal guidance as her habit was, this whisper, muffled and very hurried, ran across her brain:  “It’s Mr. Sanderson.  Call David in at once!”

And she had done so.  Her shrill voice crossed the lawn and died away into the Forest, quickly smothered.  No echo followed it.  The sound fell dead against the rampart of a thousand listening trees.

“The damp is so very penetrating, even in summer,” she murmured when they came obediently.  She was half surprised at her open audacity, half repentant.  They came so meekly at her call.  “And my husband is sensitive to fever from the East.  No, please do not throw away your cigars.  We can sit by the open window and enjoy the evening while you smoke.”

She was very talkative for a moment; subconscious excitement was the cause.

“It is so still—­so wonderfully still,” she went on, as no one spoke; “so peaceful, and the air so very sweet ... and God is always near to those who need His aid.”  The words slipped out before she realized quite what she was saying, yet fortunately, in time to lower her voice, for no one heard them.  They were, perhaps, an instinctive expression of relief.  It flustered her that she could have said the thing at all.