CHAPTER XXXVIPressed hard against the pane was a white unearthly face. For a moment, as Jean glanced up at it from her writing-desk, she thought that she must have invented it out of the mist which filled the garden.
The light of the early afternoon was dim, and the face seemed to come and go--with the drifting strips of fog which blew in from the moor; only the eyes which watched Jean unmovingly were real.
Jean knew that she could not have invented their deep cold blue.
She rose stiffly, and moving reluctantly towards the window, opened it; and stood aside. The slim, shadowy figure confronting her took shape, and slipped past her into the room. For a long moment neither of them spoke; the fog filtered in between them, as if some unseen Power were trying to keep them apart.
'I'm sorry,
