And then followed—­he could hear it again, so plainly, as his eyes now sought the friendly shades of the beeches and the elms yonder in Hyde Park!—­upon the air made denser by the storm, the call of a lonely bird from one side of the valley.  The note was deep and strong and clear, like the bell-bird of the Australian salt-bush plains beyond the Darling River, and it rang out across the valley, as though a soul desired its mate; and then was still.  A moment, and there came across the valley from the other side, stealing deep sweetness from the hollow rocks, the answer of the bird which had heard her master’s call.  Answering, she called too, the viens ici of kindred things; and they came nearer and nearer and nearer, until at last their two voices were one.

In that wild space there had been worked out one of the great wonders of creation, and under the dim lamps of Park Lane, in his black, shocked mood, Rudyard recalled it all by no will of his own.  Upon his eye and brain the picture had been registered, and in its appointed time, with an automatic suggestion of which he was ignorant and innocent, it came to play its part and to transform him.

The thought of it all was like a cool hand laid upon his burning brow.  It gave him a glimpse of the morning of life.

The light was gone from the evening sky:  but was it gone forever?

As he entered his house now he saw upon a Spanish table in the big hall a solitary bunch of white roses—­a touch of simplicity in an area of fine artifice.  Regarding it a moment, black thoughts receded, and choosing a flower from the vase he went slowly up the stairs to Jasmine’s room.

He would give her this rose as the symbol of his faith and belief in her, and then tell her frankly what he had heard at De Lancy Scovel’s house.

For the moment it did not occur to him that she might not be at home.  It gave him a shock when he opened the door and found her room empty.  On her bed, like a mesh of white clouds, lay the soft linen and lace and the delicate clothes of the night; and by the bed were her tiny blue slippers to match the blue dressing-gown.  Some gracious things for morning wear hung over a chair; an open book with a little cluster of violets and a tiny mirror lay upon a table beside a sofa; a footstool was placed at a considered angle for her well-known seat on the sofa where the soft-blue lamp-shade threw the light upon her book; and a little desk with dresden-china inkstand and penholder had little pockets of ribbon-tied letters and bills—­even business had an air of taste where Jasmine was.  And there on a table beside her bed was a large silver-framed photograph of himself turned at an angle toward the pillow where she would lay her head.

How tender and delicate and innocent it all was!  He looked round the room with new eyes, as though seeing everything for the first time.  There was another photograph of himself on her dressing-table.  It had no companion there; but on another table near were many photographs; four of women, the rest of men:  celebrities, old friends like Ian Stafford—­and M. Mennaval.