deportment of the day--the very way she glided about was as the movement
of some other being.

And as those old worshipers of Dionysus had grown intoxicated with the
night and the desire of communion with the beyond, so he--John
Derringham--cool, calculating English statesman--felt himself being
drawn into a current of emotion and enthrallment whose end could only be
an ecstasy of which he did not yet dare to dream.

It was all so abnormal--to see her here, a shadow, a tantalizing soft
shadow with a new personality--it was no wonder he rubbed his eyes and
asked himself if he were awake.

"Come with me," she whispered, bending nearer to him, "and I will show
you how the wild roses grow at night."

"I will follow you to Hades," he said, "but I warn you I cannot see a
yard beyond my nose. You must lead me with your hand, if so ethereal a
spirit possesses a hand."

Again the silver laugh, and he saw her not, but presently she appeared
from behind the tree. She had let down her misty, mouse-colored hair,
and it floated around her like a cloud.

Then she slipped a cool, soft set of fingers into his, and led him
onward, with sure and certain steps, while he blundered, not knowing
where to put his feet, and all the time she turned every few seconds and
looked at him, and he could just distinguish the soft mystery of her
eyes, while now and then, as she walked, a tendril of her floating hair
flew out and caressed his face, as once before, long ago.