She was by nature extraordinarily sensitive to impressions.  It was to that quick receptivity that the success of “The Great Fortinbras” had been chiefly due.  She had a gift of rapid comprehension.  It was not that she argued, or deducted, or inferred.  But she felt.  To take a metaphor from the work of the man she loved, she was a natural receiver.  So now, although no word was spoken, she was aware that Mme. Dauvray was greatly excited—­greatly disturbed; and she dreaded the reason of that excitement and disturbance.

While they were driving home in the motor-car she said apprehensively: 

“You met a friend then, to-night, madame?”

“No,” said Mme. Dauvray; “I made a friend.  I had not met Mme. Rossignol before.  A bracelet of hers came undone, and I helped her to fasten it.  We talked afterwards.  She lives in Geneva.”

Mme. Dauvray was silent for a moment or two.  Then she turned impulsively and spoke in a voice of appeal.

“Celie, we talked of things”; and the girl moved impatiently.  She understood very well what were the things of which Mme. Dauvray and her new friend had talked.  “And she laughed. ...  I could not bear it.”

Celia was silent, and Mme. Dauvray went on in a voice of awe: 

“I told her of the wonderful things which happened when I sat with Helene in the dark—­how the room filled with strange sounds, how ghostly fingers touched my forehead and my eyes.  She laughed—­ Adele Rossignol laughed, Celie.  I told her of the spirits with whom we held converse.  She would not believe.  Do you remember the evening, Celie, when Mme. de Castiglione came back an old, old woman, and told us how, when she had grown old and had lost her beauty and was very lonely, she would no longer live in the great house which was so full of torturing memories, but took a small appartement near by, where no one knew her; and how she used to walk out late at night, and watch, with her eyes full of tears, the dark windows which had been once so bright with light?  Adele Rossignol would not believe.  I told her that I had found the story afterwards in a volume of memoirs.  Adele Rossignol laughed and said no doubt you had read that volume yourself before the seance.”

Celia stirred guiltily.

“She had no faith in you, Celie.  It made me angry, dear.  She said that you invented your own tests.  She sneered at them.  A string across a cupboard!  A child, she said, could manage that; much more, then, a clever young lady.  Oh, she admitted that you were clever!  Indeed, she urged that you were far too clever to submit to the tests of some one you did not know.  I replied that you would.  I was right, Celie, was I not?”

And again the appeal sounded rather piteously in Mme. Dauvray’s voice.

“Tests!” said Celia, with a contemptous laugh.  And, in truth, she was not afraid of them.  Mme. Dauvray’s voice at once took courage.