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It can never have been explained, I suppose, what, to devitalized perception such as mine, the contact of mortal beings with each other appears to be.  Once to have exercised this sense-freed perception is to realize that the gift of prophecy, although the subject of such frequent marvel, is no longer mysterious.  The merest glance of our sensitive and uncloyed vision can detect the strength of the relation between two beings, and therefore instantly calculate its duration.  If you see a heavy weight suspended from a slender string, you can know, without any wizardry, that in a few moments the string will snap; well, such, if you admit the analogy, is prophecy, is foreknowledge.  And it was thus that I saw it with Theresa and Allan.  For it was perfectly visible to me that they would very little longer have the strength to preserve, near each other, the denuded impersonal relation that they, and that I, behind them, insisted on; and that they would have to separate.  It was my sister, perhaps the more sensitive, who first realized this.  It had now become possible for me to observe them almost constantly, the effort necessary to visit them had so greatly diminished; so that I watched her, poor, anguished girl, prepare to leave him.  I saw each reluctant movement that she made.  I saw her eyes, worn from self-searching; I heard her step grown timid from inexplicable fears; I entered her very heart and heard its pitiful, wild beating.  And still I did not interfere.

For at this time I had a wonderful, almost demoniacal sense of disposing of matters to suit my own selfish will.  At any moment I could have checked their miseries, could have restored happiness and peace.  Yet it gave me, and I could weep to admit it, a monstrous joy to know that Theresa thought she was leaving Allan of her own free intention, when it was I who was contriving, arranging, insisting....  And yet she wretchedly felt my presence near her; I am certain of that.

A few days before the time of her intended departure my sister told Allan that she must speak with him after dinner.  Our beautiful old house branched out from a circular hall with great arched doors at either end; and it was through the rear doorway that always in summer, after dinner, we passed out into the garden adjoining.  As usual, therefore, when the hour came, Theresa led the way.  That dreadful daytime brilliance that in my present state I found so hard to endure was now becoming softer.  A delicate, capricious twilight breeze danced inconsequently through languidly whispering leaves.  Lovely pale flowers blossomed like little moons in the dusk, and over them the breath of mignonette hung heavily.  It was a perfect place—­and it had so long been ours, Allan’s and mine.  It made me restless and a little wicked that those two should be there together now.

For a little they walked about together, speaking of common, daily things.  Then suddenly Theresa burst out: