And yet--in common honesty she had to admit it--she did not want to go.
The attraction that held her was as yet too intangible to be definitely
analyzed, but she could not deny its existence. She did not love the
man--oh, surely she did not love him--for she did not want to marry him.
She brought her feelings to that touchstone and it seemed that they were
able to withstand the test. But neither did she want to cut herself
finally adrift from all chance of contact with him. It would hurt her to
go. Probably--almost certainly--she would wish herself back again. But,
the question remained unanswered, ought she to stay? For the first time
her treasured independence arose and mocked her. She had it in her heart
to wish that the decision did not rest with herself.

It was at this point, while she was yet deep in her meditations, that a
slight sound at the window made her look up. It was almost an
instinctive movement on her part. She could not have said that she
actually heard anything besides the falling rain which had died down to
a soft patter among the trees in the compound. But something induced her
took up, and so doing, she caught a glimpse of a figure on the verandah
without that sent all the blood in her body racing to her heart. It was
but a momentary glimpse. The next instant it was gone, gone like a
shadow, so that she found herself asking breathlessly if it had ever
been, or if by any means her imagination had tricked her. For in that
fleeting second it seemed to her that the past had opened its gates to
reveal to her a figure which of late had drifted into the back alleys of
memory--the figure of the dreadful old native who, in some vague
fashion, she had come to regard as the cause of her husband's death.

She had never seen him again since that awful morning when oblivion had
caught her as it were on the very edge of the world, but for long after