"I do not remember," she said slowly.

"But I was the English officer who had the apartments on the floor
below you. I saw you every morning. You spoke to me sometimes."

"You are a soldier?" she asked, with a new note in her voice.

"I was then--till the war finished."

"And now? Why have you come here?"

"To offer you help if you need it. If not, to ask your pardon
and go away."

The shrouded figure in the chair burst suddenly into rapid
hysterical talk in some foreign tongue which Dickson suspected
of being French. Heritage replied in the same language, and
the girl joined in with sharp questions. Then the Poet turned
to Dickson.

"This is my friend. If you will trust us we will do our best
to help you."

The eyes rested on Dickson's face, and he realized that he was in
the presence of something the like of which he had never met in his
life before. It was a loveliness greater than he had imagined was
permitted by the Almighty to His creatures. The little face was more
square than oval, with a low broad brow and proud exquisite eyebrows.
The eyes were of a colour which he could never decide on; afterwards
he used to allege obscurely that they were the colour of everything