I did not feel much inclined to talk after this, and so, dismissing
Simon, I began to think of how matters stood. Certainly everything was
strange. Everything, too, had been done in a hurry. It seemed to me I
had lived a long life in twenty-four hours. I had fallen in love, I had
made an enemy, and I had matched myself against men who possessed a
knowledge of some of the secret forces of life, without ever calculating
my own strength. And yet I seemed to be beating the air. Were not my
thoughts concerning Voltaire's schemes about Miss Forrest all fancy? Was
not I the victim of some Quixotic ideas? Was not the creation of
Cervantes' brain about as sensible as I? Surely I, a man of thirty,
ought to know better? And yet some things were terribly real. My love
for Gertrude Forrest was real; my walk and talk with her that day were
real. Ay, and the hateful glitter of Voltaire's eyes was real too; his
talk with Kaffar behind the shrubs the night before was real. The
biological or hypnotic power that I had felt that very night was real,
and, above all, a feeling of dread that had gripped my being was real. I
could not explain it, and I could not throw it off, but ever since I had
awoke out of my mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to
call it, I felt numbed; weights seemed to hang on my limbs, and my whole
being was in a kind of torpor.

I went to bed at length, however, and, after an hour's tossing, fell
asleep, from which I did not wake until ten o'clock next morning. I
found, on descending, that nearly all had breakfasted, but the few with
whom I spoke were very kind and pleasant towards me. I had no sooner
finished breakfast than I met Miss Forrest, and entered into
conversation with her. Once with her, all my dreads and fears vanished.
Her light eyes and merry laugh drove away dull care, and soon I was in
Paradise. Surely I could not be mistaken! Surely the quivering hand, the
tremulous mouth, the downcast eye, meant something! Surely she need not