“If I thought as you do,”—­I interrupted him—­“I would jump from this vessel into the sea and let the waters close over me!  There would be neither use nor sense in living for an ‘In-Between’ leading merely to nothingness.”

He passed his hand across his brows perplexedly.

“It certainly seems useless,”—­he admitted—­“but there it is.  It is better to accept it than run amok among inexplicable infinities.”

We were interrupted here by the sailors busying themselves in preparations for getting the yacht under way, and our conversation being thus broken off abruptly was not again resumed.  By eleven o’clock we were steaming out of Loch Scavaig, and as I looked back on the sombre mountain-peaks that stood sentinel-wise round the deeply hidden magnificence of Loch Coruisk, I wondered if my visionary experience there had been only the work of my own excited imagination, or whether it really had foundation in fact?  The letter from Santoris lay against my heart as actual testimony that he at least was real—­that I had met and known him, and that so far as anything could be believed he had declared himself my ‘lover’!  But was ever love so expressed?—­and had it ever before such a far-off beginning?

I soon ceased to perplex myself with futile speculations on the subject, however, and as the last peaks of the Scavaig hills vanished in pale blue distance I felt as if I had been brought suddenly back from a fairyland to a curiously dull and commonplace world.  Everyone on board the ‘Diana’ seemed occupied with the veriest trifles,—­Catherine remained too ill to appear all day, and Dr. Brayle was in almost constant attendance upon her.  A vague sense of discomfort pervaded the whole atmosphere of the yacht,—­she was a floating palace filled with every imaginable luxury, yet now she seemed a mere tawdry upholsterer’s triumph compared with the exquisite grace and taste of the ’Dream’—­and I was eager to be away from her.  I busied myself during the day in packing my things ready for departure with the eagerness of a child leaving school for the holidays, and I was delighted when we arrived at Portree and anchored there that evening.  It was after dinner, at about nine o’clock, that Catherine sent for me, hearing I had determined to go next morning.  I found her in her bed, looking very white and feeble, with a scared look in her eyes which became intensified the moment she saw me.

“You are really going away?” she said, faintly—­“I hope we have not offended you?”

I went up to her, took her poor thin hand and kissed it.

“No indeed!”—­I answered—­“Why should I be offended?”

“Father is vexed you are going,”—­she went on—­“He says it is all my silly nonsense and hysterical fancies—­do you think it is?”

“I prefer not to say what I think,”—­I replied, gently.  “Dear Catherine, there are some things in life which cannot be explained, and it is better not to try and explain them.  But believe me, I can never thank you enough for this yachting trip—­you have done more for me than you will ever know!—­and so far from being ‘offended’ I am grateful!—­grateful beyond all words!”