CHAPTER VI

"_But more than loss about me clings._"

Jean Ingelow


"No! no, I am mad to think it! I must have been dreaming! what could
there have been in that talk to have such an effect as I have conjured
up? She pitied Franklin! yes, she pities every one whom she thinks
suffering or wronged. Dear little tender heart! of course it was the
room,--didn't she say she was ill? it must have been awful; the heat and
the closeness got into my head,--that's it. Bad air is as bad as whiskey
on a man's brain. What a fool I made of myself! not even answering her
questions. What did she think of me? Well."

Surrey in despair pushed away the book over which he had been bending
all the afternoon, seeing for every word Francesca, and on every page an
image of her face. "I'll smoke myself into some sort of decent quiet,
before I go up town, at least"; and taking his huge meerschaum,
settling himself sedately, began his quieting operation with appalling
energy. The soft rings, gray and delicate, taking curious and airy
shapes, floated out and filled the room; but they were not soothing
shapes, nor ministering spirits of comfort. They seemed filmy garments,
and from their midst faces beautiful, yet faint and dim, looked at him,
all of them like unto her face; but when he dropped his pipe and bent
forward, the wreaths of smoke fell into lines that made the faces appear
sad and bathed in tears, and the images faded from his sight.

As the last one, with its visionary arms outstretched towards him,