I saw his fingers clench the arm of his chair as if in an effort of self-control.  Then he said:  “Perhaps I shall tell you that, too.  But not now.”  He rose abruptly.  “It is warmer inside, and we can have some music.  I am sure you must be tired of hearing me talk about myself.”

He played for us, in masterly fashion, the Peer Gynt suite, and after that a composition of his own.  At last he sang, with all the swing of the sea in voice and accompaniment, and the song drew our hearts out of us.

Nancy was very quiet as we drove from the pier, and it was while I was dressing for dinner that she came into my room.

“Elizabeth,” she said, “I am not sure whether we have been to a Methodist revival or to a Wagner music-drama—­”

“Neither,” I told her.  “There’s nothing artificial about him.  You asked me back there if he was real.  I believe that he is utterly real, Nancy.  It is not a pose.  I am convinced that it is not a pose.”

“Yes,” she said, “that’s the queer thing.  He’s not—­putting it on—­and he makes everybody else seem—­stale and shallow—­like ghosts—­or—­shadow-shapes—­”

* * * * *

I read Vanity Fair late into the night, and the morning was coming on before I tried to sleep.  I waked to find Nancy standing by my bed.

“His boat is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.  It went an hour ago.  I saw it from the roof.”

“From the roof?”

“Yes.  I got up—­early.  I—­I could not sleep.  And when I looked—­it was gone—­your glasses showed it almost out of sight.”

She was wrapped in the blue cloak.  Olaf had made her bring it with her.  She had protested.  But he had been insistent.

“I found this in the pocket,” Nancy said, and held out a card on which Olaf had written, “When she lifted her arms, opening the door, a light shone on them from the sea, and the air and all the world were brightened for her.”

“What does it mean, Elizabeth?”

“I think you know, my dear.”

“That he cares?”

“What do you think?”

Her eyes were like stars.  “But how can he?  He has seen me—­twice—­”

“Some men are like that.”

“If you only hadn’t told him about Anthony.”

“I am glad that I told him.”

“Oh, but he might have stayed.”

“Well?”

“And I might have loved him.”  She was still glowing with the fires that Olaf had lighted in her.

“But you are going to marry Anthony.”

“Yes,” she said, “I am going to marry Anthony.  I am going to flirt and smoke cigarettes and let him—­flirt—­when I might have been a—­goddess.”

It was after breakfast on the same day that a letter came to me, delivered into my own hands by messenger.  It was from Olaf, and he left it to me whether Nancy should see it.  It covered many pages and it shook my soul, but I did not show it to Nancy.