“Perhaps it is—­but I shall probably never have the chance to say what I wish to say,”—­he replied,—­and he leaned against the stairway just where the light in the saloon sent forth a bright ray upon his face, showing it to be dark with a certain frowning perplexity—­“You have studied many things in your own impulsive feminine fashion, and you are beyond all the stupidity of the would-be agreeable female who thinks a prettily feigned ignorance becoming, so that I can speak frankly.  I can now tell you that from the first day I saw you I felt I had known you before—­and you filled me with a curious emotion of mingled liking and repulsion.  One night when you were sitting with us on deck—­it was before we met that fellow Santoris—­I watched you with singular interest—­ every turn of your head, every look of your eyes seemed familiar—­ and for a moment I—­I almost loved you!  Oh, you need not mind my saying this!”—­and he laughed a little at my involuntary exclamation—­“it was nothing—­it was only a passing mood,—­for in another few seconds I hated you as keenly!  There you have it.  I do not know why I should have been visited by these singular experiences—­but I own they exist—­that is why I am rather glad you are going.”

“I am glad, too,”—­I said—­and I held out my hand in parting—­“I should not like to stay where my presence caused a moment’s uneasiness or discomfort.”

“That’s not putting it quite fairly,”—­he answered, taking my offered hand and holding it loosely in his own—­“But you are an avowed psychist, and in this way you are a little ‘uncanny.’  I should not like to offend you—­”

“You could not if you tried,” I said, quickly.

“That means I am too insignificant in your mind to cause offence,”—­ he observed—­“I daresay I am.  I live on the material plane and am content to remain there.  You are essaying very high flights and ascending among difficulties of thought and action which are entirely beyond the useful and necessary routine of life,—­and in the end these things may prove too much for you.”  Here he dropped my hand.  “You bring with you a certain atmosphere which is too rarefied for ordinary mortals—­it has the same effect as the air of a very high mountain on a weak heart—­it is too strong—­one loses breath, and the power to think coherently.  You produce this result on Miss Harland, and also to some extent on me—­even slightly on Mr. Harland,—­and poor Swinton alone does not fall under the spell, having no actual brain to impress.  You need someone who is accustomed to live in the same atmosphere as yourself to match you in your impressions and opinions.  We are on a different range of thought and feeling and experience—­and you must find us almost beyond endurance—­”

“As you find me!” I interposed, smiling.

“I will not say that—­no!  For there seems to have been a time when we were all on the same plane—­”

He paused, and there was a moment’s tense silence.  The little silvery chime of a clock in the saloon struck twelve.