can't get past it, as it were."

"Protect me!" he exclaimed. "Protect me from their love?"

Sanderson laughed. "We're getting rather mixed," he said; "we're talking
of one thing in the terms of another really. But what I mean is--you
see--that their love for you, their 'awareness' of your personality and
presence involves the idea of winning you--across the border--into
themselves--into their world of living. It means, in a way, taking you
over."

The ideas the artist started in his mind ran furious wild races to and
fro. It was like a maze sprung suddenly into movement. The whirling of
the intricate lines bewildered him. They went so fast, leaving but half
an explanation of their goal. He followed first one, then another, but a
new one always dashed across to intercept before he could get anywhere.

"But India," he said, presently in a lower voice, "India is so far
away--from this little English forest. The trees, too, are utterly
different for one thing?"

The rustle of skirts warned of Mrs. Bittacy's approach. This was a
sentence he could turn round another way in case she came up and pressed
for explanation.

"There is communion among trees all the world over," was the strange
quick reply. "They always know."

"They always know! You think then--?"