They went by her, and at the moment of passing appeared to discern her dusky form.  There came to her ears in a masculine voice, “Good night!”

She murmured a reply, glided by them, and turned round.  She could not, for a moment, believe that chance, unrequested, had brought into her presence the soul of the house she had gone to inspect, the man without whom her inspection would not have been thought of.

She strained her eyes to see them, but was unable.  Such was her intentness, however, that it seemed as if her ears were performing the functions of seeing as well as hearing.  This extension of power can almost be believed in at such moments.  The deaf Dr. Kitto was probably under the influence of a parallel fancy when he described his body as having become, by long endeavour, so sensitive to vibrations that he had gained the power of perceiving by it as by ears.

She could follow every word that the ramblers uttered.  They were talking no secrets.  They were merely indulging in the ordinary vivacious chat of relatives who have long been parted in person though not in soul.  But it was not to the words that Eustacia listened; she could not even have recalled, a few minutes later, what the words were.  It was to the alternating voice that gave out about one-tenth of them—­the voice that had wished her good night.  Sometimes this throat uttered Yes, sometimes it uttered No; sometimes it made inquiries about a timeworn denizen of the place.  Once it surprised her notions by remarking upon the friendliness and geniality written in the faces of the hills around.

The three voices passed on, and decayed and died out upon her ear.  Thus much had been granted her; and all besides withheld.  No event could have been more exciting.  During the greater part of the afternoon she had been entrancing herself by imagining the fascination which must attend a man come direct from beautiful Paris—­laden with its atmosphere, familiar with its charms.  And this man had greeted her.

With the departure of the figures the profuse articulations of the women wasted away from her memory; but the accents of the other stayed on.  Was there anything in the voice of Mrs. Yeobright’s son—­for Clym it was—­startling as a sound?  No; it was simply comprehensive.  All emotional things were possible to the speaker of that “good night.”  Eustacia’s imagination supplied the rest—­except the solution to one riddle.  What could the tastes of that man be who saw friendliness and geniality in these shaggy hills?

On such occasions as this a thousand ideas pass through a highly charged woman’s head; and they indicate themselves on her face; but the changes, though actual, are minute.  Eustacia’s features went through a rhythmical succession of them.  She glowed; remembering the mendacity of the imagination, she flagged; then she freshened; then she fired; then she cooled again.  It was a cycle of aspects, produced by a cycle of visions.